


Not Mine

by claro



Series: And Yet Not [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:37:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 52
Words: 72,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2795009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claro/pseuds/claro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a reason two alphas aren't supposed to bond. Mycroft and Greg get carried away during sex and accidentally bond, leaving Greg badly injured and Mycroft distant and cold, refusing to accept Greg as his mate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It wasn't like the previous times they had been together, and somewhere in the back of his mind Greg wasn't sure if it was because of the alcohol, or the fight they had earlier in the evening, or the change in position, but everything was closer, more intense. They clawed at each other, desperately pulling each other closer and fighting for dominance as Mycroft pushed down onto him, taking him deeper with every thrust, Greg's nails digging deep into the flesh of his hips.

Heat rising almost painfully in his stomach as Mycroft pressed hard kisses against his throat, Greg felt his whole body tense for just a second before his orgasm washed over him in a blinding wave that blocked out everything else, just the wrong side of pleasure.

Falling back down onto the bed, he released his grip on Mycroft, not because he wanted to, but because every ounce of energy had been drained from him, and his body was weak and useless. He managed a small, sleepy smile at his lover, and it was only when he felt Mycroft pull sharply away from him that he realised something was wrong.

Mycroft's face had paled, and his eyes were blown wide with...fear?

Greg tried to sit up, to reassure Mycroft that it was okay, but his head still felt light.

'Myc-'

'What have I done?'

Mycroft rolled away from Greg and staggered to the door. Seconds later the sound of retching reached him from the small bathroom.

'My-' Greg tried again, noticing for the first time the strange taste in his mouth. It was familiar, and carried a scent he knew all too well from endless nights at crime scenes. It was blood. Not his blood, some part of him knew that, but he didn't know how. But if it wasn't his then...the realisation washed over him. He'd marked Mycroft.

'Oh Christ,' Greg thought, his heart speeding up in panic, and a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. He was going to be sick himself.

You didn't mark without permission. And he and Mycroft had never even had the conversation, let alone come to an agreement. Mycroft! Oh God, Mycroft was on his own. He'd be scared and angry and Greg needed to get to him.

His own head light, and his vision swimming around the edges, Greg rolled sideways to push himself off the bed. Two things happened at once. Firstly he was hit by another wave of nausea and this time he couldn't control it, vomit splattering on the expensive carpet. Second, the movement of his head and shoulders caused a stab of pain down the side of his neck and Greg cried out, reaching for it.

Warm under his fingers, Greg felt the blood welling from the wound there. Mycroft had marked him too, he realised dazedly, not sure if that made it better or worse. Using his other hand to try and push himself up again, Greg swayed and fell back, black edges to his vision now that he was all to familiar with. It was only then he felt the warmth of his blood across his shoulder and seeping into the sheet beneath him. Too much blood. Something had gone very wrong.

'Myc-' he tried again, but the words wouldn't sound aloud, and the last thing Greg thought about before the darkness closed in, was the horror on Mycroft's face.

 

#

 

The footsteps approaching Mycroft made no effort to be quiet in the silence of the hospital. Only one person he knew moved though life with so much disregard for the comfort of those around him. Mycroft held up his hand to stop his brother before he spoke.

'Don't.'

There was a pause, and Sherlock was clearly fighting some inner turmoil between saying what he wanted to say, and following the instructions that John had no doubt given him before releasing him into the wild.

Eventually Sherlock inhaled deeply, letting it back out with more force to show his displeasure.

'John wants you.'

'Whatever for?'

'You know what for.'

Sherlock's statement was met with silence as Mycroft continued to stare out the window into the darkness. In hindsight he should have acknowledged Sherlock, perhaps then his brother would have been more inclined towards kindness when he spoke next.

'Lestrade died.'

 

#

 

It had been a long time since John had seen a bonding go so spectacularly wrong. As the man was wheeled past he took a cursory look at the wound on his neck, noting the place, the depth and the raggedness of it that spoke of the unexpected and unprepared. The artery had been nicked, and the blood loss was immense, the transfusions the paramedics had in place were barely keeping up with the loss.

The bite had been savage and primal in a way that way that was frightening and rare now that people were more aware. Most marks, although given in passion and lust, were carefully placed, designed to mark, not injure. This was a mark that was meant to hurt, even kill. It was a test of stamina and strength and endurance, instinctively testing the mate to their limits to see if they were good enough for the bonding. If they were then they would be revered, if they weren't, then they would just die and nothing was really lost to the other in the pair. A bite like that only meant one thing. Two alphas.

John had registered all of this, and was already mentally visualising how he was going to set about trying to repair the damage, when he allowed his eyes to look at the face of the man for the first time. And his heart dropped.

 

#

 

There was so much blood. The bedsheets were crimson, it was splattered against the headboard and the wall behind the bed, and there were small pooled droplets on the floor, laying a trail down the stairs to the road, where they abruptly stopped.

There was no room in the ambulance, and Mycroft was almost relieved that decision had been taken away from him. He just wasn't sure if he could face being there. And besides, the police had arrived and were keen to talk.

Mycroft had expected the police, but he had not expected to be met with the grim face of Sally Donovan, her eyes narrowed. He almost laughed. Of course Greg's team would want to be the ones to come, and from the look on their faces, no one seemed inclined to be supportive.

'Seal it up,' Donovan was commanding, and Mycroft startled slightly.

'Is that necessary, Sergeant?'

She gave him a hard, searching look that seemed to go on far longer than necessary, 'In case it becomes a murder scene.'

 

#

 

John was furious, gripping Mycroft's shoulders and looking into his face with what could have been concern in other circumstances. But Mycroft was struggling to even make out his face. He wasn't sure where John had come from, or how he had come to be sitting on the floor. All he could focus on were Sherlock's words repeating in his head.

'My fault.'

'What the hell did you tell him?' John was shouting, but not at Mycroft, of that he was at least dimly aware through the dull fog in his mind.

On the other side of the room Sherlock was absently mindedly playing with an IV tap he had picked up, feigning disinterest in both Mycroft's state and John's anger at him for having caused it in the first place.

'It's the truth.'

'Part of the truth, Sherlock. Jesus Christ! I told you to tell him that Lestrade was in recovery. Not to send him into shock. For fuck sake, Sherlock, he thinks he's killed him.'

Mycroft blinked at John's words.

'He's-?'

John's face softened, and he loosened his grip on Mycroft slightly, 'They lost him during surgery, but he's through it now.'

'He's-'

'I'll not tell you that he's fine, Mycroft,' John cut him off sharply, his eyes cold, 'Because he's not. In fact, he's very _not_ fine. And that _is_ your fault.'

Mycroft swayed at John's words.

'What the hell were you thinking?'

'He clearly wasn't thinking,' Sherlock flicked a glance at them over his shoulder.

John glared at Sherlock, but said nothing. Instead he focused on Mycroft.

'Do you want to see him?'

Mycroft rocked backwards at John's words, panic swelling in his chest.

'No!'

He was on his feet without knowing how, his legs unsteady underneath him. Staggering backwards, Mycroft felt an unfamiliar coldness creeping through his chest.

John stood and reached for him, but Mycroft just backed away faster, panic rising and the need to get away overwhelming. Sherlock watched his brother, his eyebrow raised slightly, but no other expression on his face as he waited to see how John dealt with it.

But Mycroft barely registered that as he pushed through the door.

'Mycroft!' John was right behind him, 'Mycroft, wait!'

'I can't,' Mycroft's voice was barely a whisper, choking in his throat.

John reached for him again, but Mycroft pushed him away.

'You can't leave him alone,' John tried again, 'He's your mate!'

Mycroft froze, hands still in front of him as if in defence. The room was silent and still, the weight of John's words heavy in the air. Mycroft looked at him, eyes wild.

'No,' he said, 'He's not.'

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to reason with Mycroft. Things go about as well as expected.

 

Gregory Lestrade was, despite what John had told Mycroft, not getting better.

It had been three days since the incident ('Oh, so that's what we're calling it now, Sherlock?') and the man had yet to regain consciousness. His surgery had stopped the bleeding, but only just. The wound, however, was refusing to heal.

'He didn't even stay to clean it,' John tried to contain his anger as he examined Greg's stitches again.

Sally Donovan, who had taken to hanging around Greg's hospital room when she wasn't on duty, glanced up from the bedside.

'At all?' the look on her face was incredulous, 'He just left him there to bleed out?'

John bit his lip as he considered his answer, careful not to say to much, always mindful of Sally's loyalty to both her boss and her job.

'You think he left him like that on purpose? That he-?'

'No. I don't know. I...all I can tell you is that he didn't stay to finish, and without cleaning, this is going to take a long time to heal.' He didn't add that without the saliva of a mate, an injury like that might never heal. Sally already knew that, and her intelligent eyes were watching John's face for any tell that might give him away.

'You don't have to protect him just because you're bonded to his brother.'

'I'm not.'

She considered him again, 'Should you even be treating him?'

'Do you really think I'd let someone else do it?'

'Is it ethical?'

'Sergeant-'

'Alright, alright,' she held up her hands, 'I'm just looking out for Greg.'

'So am I.'

John carried on cleaning and redressing in silence for a few minutes, aware of Sally's gaze on his hands at all times, something he found both annoying and amusing at the same time. It was like being watched by Sherlock, although he doubted that Donovan would have been pleased at the comparison.

'You see many alpha alpha bonds?' she asked eventually.

'Not any more.'

He didn't need to explain why to her. Sally was smart, she was a police officer, she knew all too well how dangerous those partnerships could be.

'I didn't think it was serious between them,' John mused.

'Doesn't look like it was.'

John had to agree. Whatever had happened, it was clear that the mark wasn't planned.

'Consensual?'

'Are you interrogating me, Sergeant?' John tried, and failed, to keep his tone light.

'Just asking.'

Concentrating on what he was doing for a moment, John took his time to answer. Always mindful of how his words could be used against him later. Not that he doubted Sally's intentions when it came to Greg.

Taking a breath he considered his words carefully.

'These types of bite are given by the least dominant alpha in the situation at the time.'

Tilting her head to one side, Sally looked confused for a moment, and then realisation dawned slowly across her face.

'You mean Greg was...'

'Penetrating, yes.' John decided it was less embarrassing for both of them if he kept his words as formal as possible when discussing his friend's sex life, especially with one of his colleagues who may or may not be aware of the extent of Greg's sexual history.

'Oh.'

'Yes.'

Sally nodded, slightly more relaxed now that she knew that both men had been actively participating in the moment. But then she frowned.

'Do you think he marked... _him_?'

 

 

#

 

'I'm sorry, Dr Watson, Mr Holmes is unavailable.'

John had always been equally in awe of and frightened of Anthea, Mycroft's long time assistant. Beautiful, poised, composed and in charge of running the life of the man who ran the country, she was a force to be reckoned with, and one that most people never expected.

'I'm not playing games. I know that you know what happened, and you know that if I don't see him then there's a very real chance that-'

'It's okay, Anthea,' Mycroft's smooth voice came from the doorway, 'I have a few free moments.'

Somehow, without her expression changing at all, Anthea managed to convey her displeasure, but she stepped politely aside and gestured for John to pass.

Mycroft had already retreated back into his office when John entered, closing the door behind him.

They stared at each other for a second too long, before Mycroft, his normal composure fully restored since the last time John had seen him, indicated for John to sit.

'And to what do I owe this pleasure?'

'I just wanted to see if you were alright.'

Mycroft smirked at him, 'Now, now. We both know that's a lie.'

'Yeah, but it's a good lie.'

'I can assure you that you find me in good health, Dr Watson.'

John felt his eyebrows twitch. So, they were back to 'Dr Watson' again, were they. He resisted the urge to sigh. Bloody Holmes men! At least he could yell at Sherlock, but John had the feeling that raising his voice to the elder Holmes would see him face down in the Thames before sunset. Even so, Greg was his friend.

'Shame I can't say the same about Greg.'

Mycroft didn't even flinch, his expression giving absolutely no indication of what he was thinking or feeling, and John wasn't sure whether to admire that or be terrified.

'And how is Detective Inspector Lestrade?' Mycroft's voice was polite, but with a cold, detached edge that John was far too familiar with after years of dealing with Sherlock and his brother.

'He's still unconscious. Running a fever. Mark's not healing,' John paused, wondering at the sensibility of using 'mark' instead of 'wound' which was how he had been mentally referring to it since Greg was brought in, but he shook it off and decided it didn't really matter what term he used, Mycroft knew what he was talking about, and there was no point in trying to dance through word games with a Holmes. John sighed instead, running his hands across his face before answering, gripped with sudden exhaustion, 'He's not doing well at all.'

Mycroft considered this for a moment, 'I'm sorry to hear that.'

'If you could even provide a sample of-'

'I don't think that would appropriate, Dr Watson.'

'It's the only way he's going to heal properly. Otherwise it could be years, and that's if it doesn't get infected. Mycroft he could die.'

For the briefest of seconds John thought he saw a flicker of emotion in Mycroft's eyes, but then it was gone and Mycroft resumed his slightly disinterest posture, waiting for the other man to speak again.

Trying a different tactic, John said, 'Scotland Yard are investigating. Sergeant Donovan is pushing for attempted murder charges, did you know that?'

Mycroft didn't speak, so John plowed on.

'And the whole team is behind her on this one. The whole Yard.'

'And we know what happened last time the whole team got behind Sergeant Donovan, don't we?' Mycroft's disapproving smirk was almost too much for John.

'That's a low blow, Mycroft,' John's voice was barely more than a growl, 'Even for you.'

For just an instant Mycroft looked mildly ashamed, but then his features slipped back into the mask he had spent many decades perfecting. The mask he used to shut everyone out, including, it now seemed, Gregory Lestrade.

John, running on no sleep was just too tired to care any more, and he looked imploringly at Mycroft, 'Please, Mycroft. He's you're mate.'

'I don't have a mate.' The words were cold and clipped and slightly louder than they needed to be. The subtle shift in Mycroft's shoulders made it clear that John was no longer welcome, and that further conversation was not useful and would not be tolerated.

Shaking his head, John got unsteadily to his feet and looked down at Mycroft, who was still sitting at his desk, face impassive, but complexion slightly paler than usual and his anger bubbled back to the surface as he yanked open the door.

'You're a real dick, Mycroft,' he snarled, before storming past Anthea who had clearly been listening to the whole exchange.

If John had been less focused on his own anger, he may have heard Mycroft quietly requesting that Anthea cancel the rest of his appointments for the day, before the office door closed again.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Pushing himself away from his laptop, John leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling, 'I don't understand.'

'Generally or specifically?' Sherlock hummed, his attention focused on the bow he was cleaning with care.

John glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, 'Specifically,' he said and paused, thinking about the damage the mark had done to Greg's throat. Damage that might never heal.

'Hmm.'

'It's just seems so out of character for Mycroft.'

Sherlock lifted his bow to examine the strings critically, 'I don't see why it should surprise you. My brother is not known for his self control.'

'Are we talking about the same man here? Mycroft is-'

'I told you the day I met you that he is the most dangerous man you will ever meet.'

'Yes, but-'

Sherlock turned then, pointing at John with the bow as if to illustrate his point in the air, 'My brother never knows when to stop, whether it's ambition, power or cake.' Sherlock narrowed his aqua eyes at John in something almost like amusement, 'Mycroft is...skilled at presenting a certain persona.'

'Persona?'

Sherlock shrugged in response as if it should be obvious and refocused his attention on what he was doing.

'Yeah,' John sighed and stood up, knowing he wasn't going to get any more out of Sherlock, 'Tea?'

 

#

 

Five days.

John refused to meet Sally Donovan's questioning gaze when he walked into Greg's room. They both knew that every day, every _hour_ that Greg was unconscious was bad. John had cleaned and changed the dressing on Greg's neck before she arrived, so she was at least spared having to witness that. It upset John to see how distressed she looked every time she caught a glimpse of Greg's injury.

And that was how John had to refer to it. An injury.

It _should_ have been a symbol of commitment. Instead it was the result of a question of dominance. Regardless of whether it was intended or not, the fact was that Greg was injured and there was no one there to care for him. Of course John was there, but that wasn't the same as having a mate there.

John had never really considered the concept of mates until he met Sherlock. Suddenly it had all made sense. The only logical thing that existed in their strange little world. From the outside he knew it didn't work. Serious army doctor, impulsive private detective, endless fights, frustrations and annoyances. He knew that other people saw him as Sherlock's pet. Something that followed the man around. A puppy. Ironic given that Sherlock was the omega in the relationship. And if John followed him it was out of curiosity and protection. Let people think what they want.

Their own bonding had been unexpected, at least for John. Although in hindsight he wasn't sure that he should have expected anything less from Sherlock. He'd been comfortable with their relationship, and if he'd ever thought about bonding then it had been a vague notion at the back of his mind. He'd wanted to, of course, but somehow the notion of tethering someone like Sherlock just seemed so out of reach. But the days passed, and then the years, until Sherlock glanced up from his tea and casually asked John where he'd like his mark.

'That's not really how it works, Sherlock. Omega's don't usually-'

'Oh, John. Don't be boring.'

Later that night John marked Sherlock, taking care to clean and tend to the bite. He was expecting, but still unprepared for the cheeky nip that Sherlock gave him. Alphas didn't usually sport a mark, but why would John ever expect his partner to follow convention.

He'd suffered teasing over it, Greg, in particular, had been irritating to the point where John was itching to punch him.

'What are you smiling at?' Donovan asked.

'Just thinking about how hard I'm gonna punch him when he wakes up.'

'You might have to get in line for that,' a small smile tugged at the corners of Donovan's mouth, 'How's Mycroft?'

John rocked back on his heels. That was unexpected. And judging from Sally Donovan's expression, she wasn't too pleased at asking either.

'I don't know.'

'You've seen him, though, right?'

'Just the once.'

He almost told her about the attempts Sherlock had been making to get his brother to talk. But Mycroft, when he did accept Sherlock's calls, refused to speak about anything except the most trivial matters. Sherlock had taken to ambushing his brother at the office or home in his attempts to force the conversation Mycroft was avoiding.

Instead, they lapsed into silence, both watching Greg. Waiting.

 

#

 

'I thought you'd be hungry,' Molly offered the sandwich with a nervous smile, 'How is he?'

John shrugged, 'Same.'

Molly hovered by the door, unwilling to come any further into the room, but at the same time it was clear that she had something to say.

'What'll happen to them?'

John shrugged, 'Don't know. Greg could press charges, but knowing Mycroft he'd-'

'That's not what I mean.'

'I know.'

There was a pause before Molly spoke again.

'I thought they were okay. I mean, not the love of each other's lives or anything, but you know, sort of...settled. I didn't think they'd bond.'

'I don't think it was planned.'

'You mean-'

'Oh. No! No, Molly, that's not what I- I'm not saying-no.'

Molly nodded, looking slightly relieved.

'So,' she said, 'Who's seeing to Mycroft?'

'Hmm?'

Molly indicated Greg's neck and glanced at John as if it should be obvious, 'Two alphas.'

 

#

 

'Let me see it.'

Mycroft glanced up from his desk with a look of mild surprise as John pushed past Anthea and into the office.

'Sorry sir, he-'

'It's fine,' Mycroft waved his assistant off, his attention focused on John, 'How can I help you, Dr Watson?'

'Let me see it.'

'See what?'

'You know what. Your mark, Mycroft.'

'I don't know what you are-'

'Look, either you show me or I'll rip your shirt off myself.' John glared hard at him until Mycroft sighed and loosened his tie.

His mark was lower than Greg's, slightly to the side, and had been neatly dressed and tended to. John frowned as he removed the dressing.

'It's still bleeding?'

Mycroft nodded just once, his gaze focused on the far wall as John examined his neck.

'Jesus, Mycroft!'

'It will heal.'

'Are you taking anything for this?'

Mycroft shook his head.

'Fucking Holmes men!' John hissed as he started to redress Mycroft's neck, part of him admiring how neat the placement was. It would be easy for Mycroft to hide. Easy to pretend it wasn't there. Greg's, on the other hand, was always going to be obvious. When it eventually healed, the scarring was going to be bad, and the placement, higher up on the neck, would mean it would always be on display. A lot of people liked that symbol, deliberately choosing a prominent place, proud to show off their marks. And maybe, in other circumstances, Greg might have chosen a similar placement. He'd have been proud. But now he would see that mark every day and know what it meant. Everyone would see it. Everyone would know.

'Dr Watson!' Mycroft pulled back as John tightened his grip.

'Keep it clean,' John pulled off his gloves, his voice professional, 'It's a little inflamed. Send your assistant down to the surgery, I'll have some antibiotics waiting. Keep taking the iron tablets, but you'll need to ease up with the painkillers.'

'I'm not-'

'I have to get back to Greg.'

If Mycroft reacted at all, John didn't see it.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 The hospital was quiet, and the dimmed lights gave it an eerie feel. Mycroft had fought hard against the urge to go there, against the strange pull towards Gregory that had become a constant feeling of pressure. He knew the theory, of course, everyone did, but the actual sensation was entirely unexpected. Without even knowing it, Gregory had become a fixed point in Mycroft's world. Mycroft could feel exactly where he was, knew instinctively.

There were other sensations too, ones that he didn't allow himself to think about too much. Like being woken from his own sleep by a nightmare Gregory was having in a hospital bed five miles away. That had been a confusing experience, and on waking it had taken Mycroft several moments to understand where the feelings of distress and fear were coming from.

Gregory was still unconscious, Mycroft knew. Even without John Watson or the army of agents at his disposal, Mycroft would have known the instant Gregory woke. He wasn't sure if he would ever get used to that sensation. He wasn't sure he wanted to.

Opening the door to Gregory's room, Mycroft was unprepared for the scent of the other man. He thought he was used to it, God knows it still clung to everything Mycroft owned and he carried it around with him every day. But this was different. It was like smelling the other man for the first time.

Mycroft wanted nothing more than to lay down beside Greg, breathe in his smell and feel the warmth of his body. But he did none of those things. Instead he moved quickly across the room, pausing only for a second to look down at the detective inspector before swiftly removing the dressing on his neck.

It was worse than he thought, and the guilt washed over Mycroft with a force he hadn't expected. He knew it was too late. Knew that no matter what he did now, the mark would still be slow to heal.

'I almost bonded once before,' Mycroft was surprised to hear himself speak, 'We met through friends. He was younger than me, just finishing university. An omega through and through, all he wanted was to settle down into family life, have an army of children. I'd like to say the end was romantically epic, but we just drifted apart. I didn't want...I still don't want that. I don't want the family life. I don't want the children. I don't want a _mate._ I don't want you.'

Mycroft had no idea why he was even trying to explain himself to the other man, and he stopped, pursing his lips together before he could say anything else. His fingers traced the edge of Gregory's mark, red and hot, a permanent reminder on display for the world to see. Taking a deep breath, Mycroft ducked his head and set about doing what he should have done days ago.

 

#

 

'Would anyone like to explain why there is a security detail on my ward?'

Anthea lifted her head at the sound of John's raised voice, but she said nothing, instead letting Mycroft speak.

'Would you like to explain why there wasn't one before now?' Mycroft's voice was low and calm as he regarded John over the top of the file he was reading.

'It's a hospital, Mycroft. Not MI5.'

'A hospital containing Detective Inspector Lestrade who is-'

'Not your mate,' John bit sarcastically.

'Who is a high profile police officer with a long list of enemies of his own, and a known association with myself. That places him in a vulnerable position, and should word of our...situation get out then I wish for Gregory to be safe.'

'Why were you at the hospital?'

Anthea chose that moment to excuse herself, slipping quietly out of the room, leaving her boss and the doctor facing off across the desk.

'I don't know what-'

'For someone who's so adamant that he doesn't have a mate, you're going to a lot of trouble to make sure he's being cared for.'

'Regardless of my feelings on the matter, I have a legal responsibility to ensure-'

'Think about who you're talking to and try again.'

There was a long silence in the room, broken only when John sighed and dropped down into the chair opposite Mycroft. He wiped a hand across his eyes before looking back up.

'What are you going to do when he wakes up?'

 

 

#

 

Mycroft hadn't allowed himself to think so far ahead. Less than a week ago he'd been settled in a mutually beneficial relationship with a man he admired. A week ago, had he been asked, he would have admitted that he enjoyed the detective inspector's company, and could, further down the line, see them living together. He'd been working up to ask, before everything went wrong. He'd compiled a list of reasons why it made sense, from the practical to the financial. But in reality, he just wanted it.

'Would you ever have...you know, if you hadn't?' John asked.

'No.'

John had been expecting the response, but the frank and simple tone took him by surprise.

'Ever?'

'I never wanted a mate, Dr Watson. They are inconvenient at best, and in my line of work they are often a hazard.'

'But you and Greg have been together for a long time.'

'And?'

John shrugged, 'I just thought...I dunno.'

Mycroft was all too familiar with that particular train of thought. His parents had been repeating those arguments for years. It had been worse since Sherlock and John had bonded. And then he'd made the mistake of introducing them to Gregory and ever since it had seemed the world was holding it's breath waiting on a happy announcement.

'Whatever you do,' John tried very hard to keep his voice calm, 'Do it gently. He can't go through that again.'

 

#

 

John loved Sherlock, but there were times when he wanted to punch him in the mouth. The previous Christmas had been one of those times. After Sherlock's announcement about Greg's wife, Molly had tried so hard to change the conversation, allowing Greg to slip back into the kitchen unnoticed.

He had been so angry at Sherlock that night that he hadn't even gone with him to the morgue. Instead he'd stayed behind, waiting on Mycroft's call, and he'd never noticed how Lestrade had left soon after. He didn't think at all about Lestrade until days later when he saw him outside the flat, unkempt and exhausted, but even then it didn't register with John just how badly Lestade was coping.

His relationship with his wife had been more off than on for years, but she was still his mate. John wouldn't have expected anyone to take that news well, but even so, it was still a shock when he called to Greg's early in the new year and found the man half conscious on the floor of his flat.

John didn't realise until years later, following his own bonding with Sherlock, just how deep the connection ran. How Lestrade would have felt everything his mate was feeling. He'd have known, long before Sherlock announced it in front of everyone. Of course he'd have known. The only thing that had been keeping him together was the fact that it wasn't public knowledge. It meant it wasn't quite real and he hadn't had to deal with it.

He'd been so caught up in his own drama with Sherlock and that bloody woman that he'd almost missed the state his friend was in. It made him realise that he couldn't spend the rest of his life waiting for something to happen. Waiting for Sherlock to make the first move. He'd gone home and thrown Sherlock against the door, kissing him until he couldn't breathe any more.

They hadn't made it as far as the bedroom, instead they made love on the floor that first time, each taking out their anger and emotions on the other.

Less than a week later they bonded. Then Mycroft had entered Greg's life and slowly everything started to change. Greg recovered and he and Mycroft had entered into a relationship/. In truth, John believed that relationship was part of the reason Greg had recovered at all. He didn't want to think what could have happened if Greg hadn't had Mycroft. And yet here Mycroft was, doing the same thing to him barely a year later.

Mycroft was right. John had made a lot of assumptions. If he'd stopped to think about it, even for a moment, he would have realised that had Mycroft wanted a mate then he would have taken one years before. Likewise, Greg had suffered so much over his wife that it was unlikely he would ever bond again.

 

#

 

The meeting was winding to a close when Mycroft sat up a little straighter, trying to identify the sensation that was creeping through his body. It was not unpleasant, and while it was strange, it was not entirely unfamiliar either. He tuned out the awful American man opposite him and allowed himself a few seconds to concentrate on the feeling, examining it in an effort to understand.

Subconsciously his hand went to the mark on his neck, hidden below his collar, and Mycroft almost smiled, only his consummate professionalism keeping his face unreadable.

When the door finally closed on the last of the attendees, Mycroft called for Anthea.

'Please call Dr Watson,' he said, 'Inform him that Detective Inspector Lestrade is awake.'

 


	5. Chapter 5

 Greg came around slowly, and it was several days before he was lucid enough to realise where he was and what was happening. John had him under constant surveillance as they waited for Greg's reaction, and in the background taking careful note of everything that happened in the room, were Mycroft's staff. Greg didn't even seem to notice them, and John wondered at the type of life he'd shared with Mycroft that made security staff so common place that you stopped realising they were there.

Pushing open the door, John tried not to notice the hopeful way Greg looked up, and how quickly his smile vanished again.

Mycroft had not been to the hospital, and he had ignored all attempts at contact. John knew that Sherlock had been to see his bother, and he could only imagine how that conversation had gone. Sherlock had refused to talk about it when he returned home, instead busying himself making a mess of the kitchen.

Greg had been fully conscious for two days before he asked about Mycroft.

'Did he come at all?'

'Once,' John didn't want to give Greg false hope, but he didn't want to lie to him either.

But Greg just nodded and muttered something about how busy Mycroft was before he gave into sleep again.

Sherlock didn't visit the hospital at all, a fact that didn't seem to cause much upset, in fact, Greg seemed thankful for it.

'Small mercies,' he said to John, 'I have to say the break has been quite nice. Perhaps I should end up in hospital more often.'

'Don't you dare. Do you have any idea what it's like living with Sherlock when he's bored?'

'I dealt with him for years before you come along, so yeah, I do actually.'

'I don't suppose you want to take him back, do you?'

Greg laughed, 'He's not my mate. Speaking of which, I don't suppose you've heard from mine?'

'Not for a day or two. I spoke to Anthea a couple of times,' which was more or less true. Spoke _at_ Anthea might be a more accurate statement.

'You should see how difficult it is to just make dinner plans with that man,' Greg shook his head, a slight smile on his face that confused John.

It wasn't until much later that evening, when he was sitting in his armchair, trying to concentrate on his book, that he realised what it was about Greg that was concerning him.

'I don't think Greg knows.'

'Of course he doesn't.' Sherlock didn't even look up from John's laptop, 'He thinks he's got a mate because he has no reason to believe otherwise.'

'But Mycroft hasn't even been to see him, surely that would be a pretty big hint that something wasn't right.'

'Given that Mycroft frequently disappears for days or weeks at a time without contact, it's not exactly out of character.'

'But if your mate was in a hospital bed-'

'Ah,' Sherlock pointed at John, 'And there we have the problem. Mycroft doesn't believe he has a mate.'

'What are we going to do?'

'Do?' Sherlock frowned, 'We aren't going to do anything. They'll sort it out themselves eventually.'

But John wasn't convinced, 'I don't think Greg can cope with this.'

'He survived a broken bond before.'

'Just about. No thanks to you.' A thought struck John, 'Whatever you do, don't just blurt it out this time.'

Sherlock didn't respond. Instead he went back to whatever it was he was doing, ignoring John's worried looks in his direction.

 

#

 

The doctors removed Greg's catheter only after he promised to take it easy.

'And by easy, I mean in bed,' John warned.

'You wouldn't say that if you'd ever seen me in bed.'

'Not an image I particularly wanted, thanks for that, Greg.'

'You've seen me naked before.'

'Yes, that was a sponge bath I'll not forget.'

'I saw you, sneaking a peek,' Greg winked at him.

'Caught off guard. I wasn't expecting you to be naked under your pyjamas.'

'Don't usually bother with those either, they never stay on for long when Mycroft is about,' he laughed as John pulled a face.

'I am not talking about your sex life.'

'No, I am talking about it and you are standing there listening. Besides, I've been forced to hear enough about yours. Included that time I caught you two at in my office. How did you even get in there anyway?'

'It was a bit of a challenge,' John admitted, smiling at the memory.

'I can't wait to get out of here,' Greg said, 'A beer, a curry and lots and lots of sex. I'm going to do the dirtiest things to Mycroft, and then I'm going to tell you every single detail.'

John didn't have the heart to say anything.

 

#

 

Greg was still thinking about Mycroft later that evening. He had no idea where his phone was. Probably still at Mycrot's with his clothes. He hadn't exactly been dressed when he was brought in. He made a mental note to ask John to collect something for him to wear other than pyjamas. They weren't even his. His always carried a slight scent of Mycroft, no matter how often they were washed. It was comforting on those nights when Mycroft was out of the country and Greg was alone in bed.

When Molly came to see him Greg asked to borrow her phone. She looked a little nervous as she handed it over, but she left the room with a watery smile to give him some privacy.

Greg was grinning to himself as he dialled Mycroft's number.

'Yes?' Mycroft's voice came on the end of the line, almost distracted. Certainly distracted enough to answer a call from a strange mobile. Although, actually, Mycroft probably had Molly's number. He probably had God's mobile number. He definitely had the Prime Minister's. Greg knew that for a fact because he'd been in the room during the last transport strike when Mycroft had started screening his calls.

'Is that any way to great your mate?'

There was a pause before Mycroft spoke, his voice lower than normal, 'I don't have a mate.'

'You do. I was there, remember?'

'I can assure you that I do not have a mate, Detective Inspector.'

'Well, I know we never got around to discussing which terms we were going to use but-'

'And nor will we.'

For the first time Greg realised that something was wrong, 'Mycroft? You're not worried about what happened? Look, I know we didn't plan it, but it was going to happen eventually, right?'

'I assure you that you are quite mistaken.'

'I know we should have talked about it before.'

'That was never going to be a conversation between us.'

'What are you saying? Mycroft? Listen, you're just freaking out because of what happened, but when I get home we'll talk through it and it'll all be fine.'

'That is not going to happen. Please stay away. It will be easier to break whatever bond may exist if we avoid contact.'

'Break the bond?' nausea welled up in Greg's chest, and he felt himself doubling over, phone clutched tightly in his hand as realisation washed over him, 'Mycroft?'

His voice was just a whisper, but he couldn't force anything else out. It didn't matter though, Mycroft was already gone.

 

#

 

Molly found Greg still like that when she returned, and she was already shouting for help before she'd crossed the room. Everything was a blur after that, the only thing that Greg was aware of was the pain. His whole body actually ached with the rejection, fear squeezing his chest, forcing the breath out of him. Molly was saying something soothing, while trying to call someone at the same time. A doctor injected something into his IV, and Greg way vaguely aware of one of Mycroft's security team watching from the door. And then there was nothing.

It was dark when Greg woke up again, John was dozing in the chair beside him, and there was a package on the table, labelled with Greg's name. He wouldn't usually open mystery packages, but he knew that handwriting well, and Mycroft wasn't in the habit of sending bombs through the post. Not that Greg was aware of, anyway.

Inside the padded envelope was his phone, wallet and the spare key to his flat. The key he'd given Mycroft months ago when things between them started to look more permanent. What the hell had happened? Just over a week ago Greg writhing under Mycroft on that ridiculously huge bed, and now he was laying alone in a hospital bed and Mycroft was returning his things via courier.

'I'm sorry we didn't tell you.'

Greg didn't look at John when he spoke.

'You should have.'

'We didn't think it was a good idea. We didn't know how you would take it,' John paused, 'How are you feeling?

'How do you think I'm feeling?'

'I really am sorry.'

'Does everyone know?'

'Yeah.'

Greg wasn't sure whether he was embarrassed that they'd all had to listen to him pathetically wittering on about 'his mate' or just relieved that he wouldn't have to tell them all what an idiot he was.

Twice. He thought bitterly. Twice he had bonded and twice he had been publicly dumped. And twice everyone else had known about it before he had.

'I think you should come and stay with us for a little while,' John said kindly.

'And risk meeting...meeting....oh God, John.'

'I know,' John soothed, but they both knew that he didn't know at all.

 

#

 

Mycroft watched the security footage in his office, his heart contracting when Greg started to cry, unaware that he was being watched. Since their phone call, Mycroft had barely moved. He'd called up the camera feed and had been watching Greg all day, ignoring the cups of tea sent his way, or Anthea's pleas for him to eat or take a break. If she knew what he was looking at, she didn't say, and Mycroft was not inclined to confide in her. She would have known what happened, of course. It had been down to Anthea to prevent the story reaching the newspapers. How she had suppressed it was a mystery, but Mycroft was certain that she's used every tool at her disposal. Anthea was many things, but she was not shy about making the most of her assets.

Mycroft had to look away when Greg opened the envelope. It distressed him to see the other man crumple and watch him be comforted by John. That was supposed to be Mycroft's role. But it wasn't. And it wouldn't be.

 


	6. Chapter 6

John didn't see Greg for a while after he was released from hospital. He had taken some time off work and wasn't answering calls. Sherlock didn't seem concerned, which gave John some comfort, but he'd have felt better if Greg would pick up just once.

'He'll be fine.'

'You remember what he was like last time?'

'How can I forget the crying and the lack of personal hygiene. At least he's doing all that in private and saving us his wailing.'

'You're all heart, Sherlock,' John shook his head at his mate, 'Sometimes I wonder what I see in you.'

'I fail to see how that is relevant.'

'What would you do if it was me?'

'If you were crying and heartbroken and believing that you were alone?'

'Hmm.'

Sherlock risked a small glance at John, clearly tying to work out whether this was some sort of test.

'But I wouldn't do that.'

'You don't know that. The way you race around London I'm surprised you're still alive most days.'

'Well, at least if I go, we both know it will be spectacular.'

'You'll probably get run over.'

'Not a very fitting end.'

'Only you would be upset if your death was boring.'

'I'd need to leave you with a really good story to tell your therapist.'

'You're lucky I love you.'

And at that Sherlock did smile, one of his genuine smiles. The one with just a hint of smugness to it. The one that often made John want to punch him.

'I know.'

 

#

 

Mycroft didn't look surprised to see Sherlock sitting in his office.

'Remind me to fire all of the security staff,' he hung up his coat, 'Again.'

'John is worried about Lestrade.'

'John is always worried about something.'

'Yes, but it's usually me. I can't have him wandering around worrying about someone else.'

'You're humility is staggering.'

Sherlock leaned forward, 'So. Lestrade. How is he?'

'Why would I know?'

'He's your mate.'

Mycroft sighed, 'I don't have a mate.'

'Mark still hurting then?'

Choosing to ignore his brother's comment, Mycroft poured himself a large scotch and sat down in one of the old leather armchairs. He didn't want to admit it, but his mark was indeed still painful and with a heat that suggested infection. He knew he really should get it checked, but part of him felt that it _should_ hurt. The main kept him angry. Reminded him why he was putting them both through what he was.

'I know you're watching him.'

'Why would I do that?'

'And I'll bet you have him followed.'

Mycroft fought to keep his expression blank, but his brother knew him better than that. He'd probably already been through Mycroft's laptop and seen the footage for himself. Mycroft sighed.

'He's fine.'

'Liar.' Sherlock smirked.

'He's coping. He's currently visiting his parents who are unaware of the situation and when he returns he will resume his sessions with the therapist John arranged for him.'

'John?'

'He is Gregory's doctor. And friend.' Mycroft said the word as if he wasn't quite sure about it.

'And he's not getting tattoos and driving sports cars?'

'That's a midlife crisis, Sherlock, not a broken bond.'

'I don't know why he's so upset. You weren't even together a year.'

'You and John were only together a week.' Mycroft pointed out.

'Yes, but we were a couple for years before that,' Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

'Gregory will recover.'

Saying the words, Mycroft really wanted them to be true. He knew that eventually his Gregory would recover. But he just wasn't sure that he would.

 

#

 

Greg's superiors were informed before Greg was released from the hospital. They were insisting on a medical and a full psychological evaluation before they would clear him for a return to duty. Broken bonds were serious, and with a history like his, Greg was already watched more closely than other officers. The fact that he had been allowed to return to work at all probably had more to do with Mycroft than his own mental state. When one half of a broken pair ran was the British Government, people didn't object too much.

Of course, they weren't to know that Greg hadn't seen or spoken to Mycroft since that night he'd called him at the hospital.

Every time he thought about that night Greg's chest tightened and he wanted to sink down and cry. His parents knew something was going on, but he just let them think that he and Mycroft had broken up. He never mentioned the bond or the hospital stay, and thankfully no one else had either. They already worried about him and his job, they didn't need to add another broken bond to the list.

John kept calling, but Greg didn't want to talk to him just yet. He'd gone to another doctor and although he felt a coward for avoiding John, he needed space.

He was fairly certain he was being followed too. Either that or there was a surplus of black sedans cruising around small French villages.

It was almost a relief to get home again, exhausted from pretending he was okay. It was the first time he had been in his flat since before hospital. He'd been staying at Mycroft's for the weekend prior to that, as had quickly become their habit. For a short moment he had thought that he might never be returning to it, at first because they'd bonded, and then because he thought he was going to die. A fact that made opening his door even more heartbreaking.

Someone had been round and opened the windows and watered the plants. They hadn't done anything about the dishes still in the sink, so it had probably been Sherlock. He wasn't inclined to clean up after himself, so he definitely wasn't going to do it for Greg.

A bag of groceries had been left on the table at some stage, but whoever it was hadn't thought to put the milk in the fridge. Sherlock for certain.

He knew he should eat, but he just didn't have the energy, or the inclination. Instead he grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge and without bothering with a glass, he took himself off to the sofa to work out what he was going to do now.

 

#

 

When his wife had left him he had seriously thought about ending it all, certain that the pain would never leave him. He'd cried until he was sick, stopped eating and almost managed to kill himself with a diet consisting of sleeping tablets and scotch.

And then Mycroft Holmes summoned him.

Greg was long past the point of caring about either himself or his job, but curiosity drove him to Mycroft's office. He'd seen the man about and knew of him. It was hard to miss someone like Mycroft when they turned up at the edge of your crime scene.

'If this is about your brother-' Greg began when the door was opened for him.

'Dear Lord, must we talk about Sherlock?' Mycroft poured them both a drink and handed one to Greg before he could say anything else.

'I thought that's what you wanted to talk about.' Greg took a long swallow. It really was _very_ good scotch, and if the opulence of the rest of the office was anything to go by, then it was very expensive too.

'Have you ever heard of Baskerville?'

'Science place? Sort of. Why?'

It had been the way Mycroft looked that made Greg say yes in the end. The man was clearly unaccustomed to asking for favours and he shifted in his head while seeking out the right words.

'It's a delicate situation, but I would be most grateful if you could go to Baskerville.'

'And do what?'

Mycroft licked his lips and that almost sent Greg over the edge, a feeling that was unexpected and

unfamiliar. But God the man was sexy.

'It seems that my brother and John have taken themselves off for a little holiday and I fear for the locals.'

Greg had laughed, 'Only Sherlock would take a holiday at an animal testing centre.'

'Yes, and only John is stupid enough to accompany him.'

'You might want to think about what you are asking me and then try that again.'

And Mycroft had smiled at him and it was like the last few months hadn't happened, and for the first time since he found out about his wife, Greg actually felt like maybe he might be alright again. One day.

'I will, of course, ensure that you are properly compensated for your efforts.'

'You want to pay me to babysit your brother?' then another thought occurred to him, 'You know I'm still suspended?'

'Yes, although I hear that your suitability to return to work has been agreed upon and you should get the confirmation in the following few days.'

'That sounds almost like a bribe, Mr Holmes.'

'Yes, I suppose it does.'

Taking another sip of his drink, Greg looked at Mycroft over the top of the glass and decided he was having too much fun to stop just yet, 'Government official trying to bribe a police officer to keep his little brother out of trouble? What would the public think about that?'

Mycroft's smile was knowing. The game was well under way.

'Yes, dreadful. I don't know what I was thinking. Trying to corrupt someone like yourself.'

'You can take me to dinner to make it up to me,' Greg stood and set his glass on the table, looking expectantly at Mycroft, 'Well? Ready?'

'Now?'

'Unless you're busy.'

Mycroft had been busy, Greg found out later. But with a few words to Anthea he cleared his evening. It was only much, much later that Greg found out Mycroft had chosen dinner with him over a phone conference with the Prime Minister and the head of M16 over a potential missile crisis. Which was probably just as well. That sort of thing could go to a boy's head.

#

 

Mycroft let Greg chose where they ate, and to his credit he didn't raise the subject of Sherlock once. When he motioned for the bill Greg made no offer to split it, eliciting a small smile from Mycroft who didn't even glance at the total before handing over his credit card.

Greg was impressed. Not with the money, he saw that all time. But with the easy way in which Mycroft dealt with it. He wasn't flashy with it, wasn't trying to impress anyone. And that _was_ refreshing.

It was also nice to not have to filed questions about his personal life. Mycroft Holmes would certainly know what was going on there. He didn't need to raise it with Greg. So Greg didn't raise it either and instead the two men ate in what was mostly silence, and for the first time in weeks Greg felt himself able to unwind and forget what a disaster his life was.

Perhaps it was the sleepy relaxation that comes from too much good food, or perhaps it was just the confidence that comes after sharing four bottles of two hundred pound wine, but as they walked back to where Mycroft's driver was waiting, Greg bumped against Mycroft gently.

'Thanks,' he said quietly.

'My pleasure, Detective Inspector.' Mycroft gave his arm a gentle squeeze.

'Greg.'

He could clearly make out Mycroft's smile in the street light. God the man was handsome. Not like his brother. Sherlock was beautiful. But he had a look about him that drew the eye. That twist to his smile, the long neck and all that red hair. People _looked_ at Mycroft. _Greg_ was looking at Mycroft. He was so busy looking at Mycroft that he missed Mycroft's movement, and it wasn't until he felt Mycroft's breath against his lips that he realised the Britich Government had just kissed him. In the middle of the street.

 

#

 

And so Gregory Lestrade went to Baskerville.

Three days of sleeping in the next room listening to Sherlock and John Not Having Sex and being chased by hallucinations and psychotic research scientists was enough to send Greg storming straight back to Mycroft's office on his return. He walked past Anthea, and the fact that he was still able to walk when he got to Mycroft's office, instead of, for example, in an ambulance, showed that he was expected.

Even so, he got a great deal of satisfaction from the look on Mycroft's face when Greg took his coat from the stand and threw it at him.

'Dinner.'

'Gregory, how-'

'Later. Did you know you sent me to stay in a vegetarian pub? Vegetarian, Mycroft! You sent me to put up with Sherlock in a _v_ _egetarian_ pub! Even the beer tasted weird.'

Mycroft opened his mouth to say something, his eyes bright with amusement, but Greg wasn't finished. Whether it was the adrenaline of shouting a man who could have you killed, or the frustrations of the last few days, Greg wasn't sure, but he was suddenly emboldened. But then again, being convinced you are going to get killed by an imaginary dog could do strange things to the brain, so perhaps what came out next couldn't really be held against him. He was already on his way back out of the office, and passing Anthea's desk.

'Cancel all of his plans,' he said jerking his head back towards an amused Mycroft, 'Mr Holmes here is going to buy me a really nice bottle of wine, and a steak the size of my face. And then we are going to have sex. Lots and lots of sex.'

Which is what they did.

Although it was weeks before either of them could look Anthea in the eye again.

 


	7. Chapter 7

'Anthea dear, please stop looking at me like that.'

'Sir?'

'It's not very subtle.'

'Sorry, sir.'

Mycroft sighed and closed the file he was reading, adding it to the pile on the edge of the desk, 'No you're not.'

'With all due respect, sir, I'm worried about you. You aren't yourself and it's impacting your work.'

'I don't see how.'

'Well, sir, I've been giving you copies of the same file to sign for the last three hours and you haven't noticed.'

Mycroft risked a glance across at his assistant and shook his head, 'Anthea.'

'Go home, sir.'

'There's so much left-'

'No, there's not. It's all taken care of.'

'I can't have possibly signed everything.'

'I may have forged your signature on some of the more boring documents.'

'Did you read them?'

'Sir.' Anthea pretended to take offence, which only made Mycroft smile.

'What would I do without you?'

He got a smile in response.

'I will make this up to you, dear.'

'It's okay, sir. You've already signed the approval for my pay rise.'

Mycroft looked at her in genuine surprise, 'I did?'

Another smile, 'Oh yes.'

 

#

 

Mycroft had not changed the locks after he and Gregory had ended. There seemed little point when the man had a fully operational Sherlock. But even so, he was surprised to find Gregory waiting for him when he got home.

It was the first time he had seen Greg in person since the hospital, and he wasn't prepared for it at all. He was paler, thinner and looked exhausted. And judging by the way he was examining Mycroft, he wasn't the only one.

'You look like shit, Myc.'

'Charmed, I'm sure.'

Greg just shrugged.

'How's your neck?'

'Healing well.'

'Liar.'

'Gregory...'

'I'll not keep you. I just wanted to give you this,' and he held out a small plastic jar, 'I know you took care of mine. So it seemed only right...so,' he trailed off as he stood up, running a tired hand through his hair, the movement clearly causing him pain and Mycroft had to resist the desire to reach out and soothe him. Instead he looked down at the jar in his hand, 'One of the more disgusting things I've done. But it won't heal otherwise, and it wouldn't be appropriate to...can't have the most important man in Britain injured.'

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but Greg was already on his way out the door, leaving nothing behind but his scent.

 

#

 

Greg got fifty yards away before he had to pull the car over, collapsing against the steering wheel and crying until he couldn't breathe. He could still smell Mycroft. Going to his house had been a mistake. One that he would not be repeating.

Once he was calmer he drove back to work, where Donovan was waiting for him. He groaned. If she was going to start complaining about Anderson again Greg would scream. The last thing he needed was to deal with more drama. If they couldn't work together and sleep together without it impacting on everyone else, then Greg was going to have them both transferred.

But it wasn't Anderson she wanted to talk about.

 

#

 

He'd warned John. Given him more than enough time to get Sherlock out of the flat and as far away as possible to give them time to try and work out how to deal with things. More than enough time. Even for John get his ass in gear. Which was why Greg was so annoyed to find John and Sherlock still at the flat when they arrived.

Greg bit his lip in frustration. He swore Sherlock preferred the confrontation. Or maybe he just liked an audience. Any other time Greg would have swore at him, but with the Chief Superintendent in tow, and his approval to work only just through again, it was not the time to be causing a scene, much as he would have liked to.

He was going to kill John, though. Not one to be left out of the fun, John made sure he got himself a free pair of handcuffs. When he and Sherlock took off into the night, Greg realised it was time he updated Mycroft.

_You brother and Loverboy are armed and running around London handcuffed to each other. Action? G_

_Handcuffed? MH_

_Yeah. And armed. Just the usual Saturday night for those two. Suggestions? G_

_Let them tire themselves out. MH_

_Any idea where they are? G_

_Mycroft? G_

_Well? G_

_Bit of help here Mycroft – G_

_Do you really need me to hold your hand? MH_

_Yes._

_You're a real bastard, Myc._

Greg put his phone back in his pocket and didn't look at it for the rest of the night. Mycroft Holmes could go to hell. Him and his bloody brother.

 

#

 

'And Moriarty didn't get this stuff from me,' John set the papers back down and looked expectantly at his brother in law.

Mycroft sat opposite John and considered how calm the younger man was given the circumstances. He'd expected shouting, and perhaps a punch or two, but although John was angry, he wasn't reacting the way Mycroft predicted.

'You're own brother and you... _blabbed_ about his entire life to this _maniac.'_

The phone in his pocket vibrated again, but he ignored it. It was bad enough being faced by John, Mycroft didn't need to deal with Greg as well. He wanted to ask where Sherlock was, it was rare to see one without the other, and Sherlock rarely missed an opportunity to cause havoc at the Diogenes. He seemed to relish in making as bad an impression as possible.

John leaned forward as he spoke, the pain on his face so clear that it hurt Mycroft to see how much the blond man loved his brother and just what the revelation was doing to him. Sometimes Sherlock was incapable of caring about himself, and so John had to care enough for both of them. Mycroft wondered why he'd never realised that before.

'John. I'm sorry. Tell him would you?

But John was already gone, the door swinging open in his wake.

It was only then that Mycroft took out his phone and looked at the new messages. One from Greg ten minutes earlier.

_What did I ever see in you?_

He knew Greg was angry and hurt, but it was still painful to hear, and Mycroft's hand went automatically to his neck.

He'd ruined everything.

 

#

 

Greg had been awake for thirty hours when the phone rang. Thinking it might be Mycroft, he pulled it out and glared down at it.

'Molly? What's he done now? I swear to God I'm really going to kill him this time.'

There was a pause before Molly spoke.

'He's dead.'

 

#

 

Greg ran up the street, too impatient to wait for the traffic lights to change. He was through the door before security could stop him, and practically ran over Anthea who was halfway across the foyer.

'Does he know?'

'Know what?'

He was damned if he was going to stop to explain. He was vaguely aware of her following behind him as he threw himself into Mycroft's office, where he found the man standing by his desk, phone in his hand, someone on the other end of the line still talking.

Greg didn't stop to think, he barrelled into Mycroft, catching the other man around the waist and pulling him towards his chest before he fell. Mycroft didn't react, he just allowed himself to be lowered to the floor, Greg wrapped around him. Anthea appeared at the door for a moment, but then was gone again. Minutes later she returned and closed the door with a sombre glance towards her boss and his one time mate.

The only time Mycroft moved was to turn his head, burying his face into the crook of Greg's neck and just breathing against the skin. Greg never let go of him.

 

#

 

'Someone should tell John Watson,' Greg sought Anthea out and found her sitting behind her desk. He knew it should be him to tell John, but he couldn't leave Mycroft. And deep down, he knew that after the previous night, he would be the last person John would want to speak to.

Anthea looked up at him in confusion, 'John Watson knows. He was there.'

'When he-? Oh, shit.'

The assistant glanced towards the closed door of the office, a small frown the only indication of what she was thinking. Greg knew she wanted to ask, but he didn't want to lie to her either. He was saved from having to decide by Mycroft calling out for him.

Back in the office he found Mycroft wide eyed and shaking as he tried to get up from the floor.

'Stay there,' Greg shrugged out of his coat so he could wrap his arms more comfortably around Mycroft.

'I thought you'd gone.' The sound of Mycroft's voice almost broke Greg's heart there and then.

'Of course not. I'll always be here.'

They both knew it was a lie. But it was the right lie for the moment so they let it be.

 

#

 

Greg eventually managed to get Mycroft home, commandeering one of his cars to do so. He didn't bother with the lights as he manhandled his mate upstairs and out of his suit. Mycroft made no objection when Greg pushed him gently down onto the bed and pulled the covers over him.

'I'll be downstairs,' Greg pushed Mycroft's hair back off his face.

'Stay.'

However much he wished he could say no, Greg couldn't. Instead he kicked off his shoes and climbed in beside Mycroft, suddenly aware of the last time he had been in that bed with him. When everything was bright and promising and _good._ And now everything was gone. Ruined.

And it was Greg's fault.

 


	8. Chapter 8

 Mycroft wasn't in bed when Greg woke, and for a second Greg panicked. But then he heard the other man speaking downstairs and he padded softly down to find him. He wasn't expecting Mycroft to be laying around in pyjamas, but nor had he expected him to be showered and fully suited, already giving instructions to Anthea.

When Greg walked in Anthea glanced at him and for a split second she looked uncomfortable. Greg knew it wasn't because he was half dressed. Anthea had seen him wearing much less and in a variety of compromising positions before. In fact, he and Mycroft had gone through a period of seeing which of them could make Anthea blush first, which she had tolerated in good grace until she finally snapped and ordered sixteen boxes of lube to be delivered to Greg's office during a team meeting, paid for through his expense account.

Greg never found out what she did to Mycroft, but they stopped having sex at the office after that.

'Ah, Gregory. You'll have to excuse me, I have some business to attend to. You can see yourself out.'

Just like that the world stopped.

'Excuse me?'

There was a soft click as Anthea closed the door behind her, leaving Greg staring across the room at Mycroft.

'Thank you for your help last night,' Mycroft nodded at him and then returned to his paper work as if the matter were settled. Which, in Mycroft's strange world, it probably was.

But Greg stood where he was, face set.

'No, no. You can't do this to me again.'

'I'm sorry,' Mycroft blinked up at him, 'I'm not sure to what you are referring.'

'You can't let me in and then walk away from me.'

'As I said, I appreciate your assistance last night, but from now on-'

'Mycroft, please. Don't. We can work this out. _Make_ it work.'

'Don't beg, Gregory.'

The words were like a slap, and Greg staggered slightly, fighting to stay upright. Mycroft didn't even look up from his desk.

'Mycroft,' Greg's voice was pathetically small in the large room, and he would have cared if he weren't in so much pain. This was worse than the first time Mycroft rejected him, and the searing pain in his neck was nothing compared to the sharp ache in his chest, 'Please.'

'Gregory, I made my position on this matter very clear a month ago. I have not changed my mind and you standing there begging like an omega is certainly not going to cause me to reconsider.'

It was the worst thing he could have said to a man like Gregory Lestrade, and made all the worse because Mycroft didn't care how much he was hurting the other man. Greg stumbled for the door, wrenching it open and not caring that he was half dressed. He passed Anthea, who had obviously been listening.

'He didn't mean it,' she said softly.

But he had.

 

#

 

Mycroft allowed himself a few seconds of self loathing, holding his head in his hands. Which of course was how Anthea found him when she entered the room.

'You should tell him, sir.'

'What good would that do any of us?'

If Anthea had a response, she didn't voice it.

 

#

 

The first time Greg and Mycroft had sex was an interesting affair. Greg had never had sex with another alpha before, and he found the grappling for dominance to be both exciting and exhausting, and that was before the actual issue of how to go about things was broached.

Mycroft, as it turned out, wasn't as hung up on gender roles as his demeanour would suggest, and he was already pulling Greg down on top of him before Greg could even bring the subject up.

It was months before they discussed changing roles, and even then Greg hadn't felt brave enough to bring it up until well into the second bottle of wine.

'Are you sure?' Mycroft had asked, 'We don't have to.'

'I want to.' And Greg was surprised to find that he did.

Mycroft had smiled at him and stood up.

'Now?' Greg blinked at him, but Mycroft just smirked back and was already half way towards the bedroom before Greg pulled himself together enough to get up off the sofa.

Greg would have liked to say that it was gentle and romantic and one of the most amazing experiences of his life. But in truth, it was late, and they were both quite drunk, and Greg had a fit of laughter as he watch the usually composed and certain Mycroft grapple with a condom, earning himself a glare from his lover. The final straw was when Greg tried to roll Mycroft over and misjudged the width of the bed, sending the other man ungracefully to the floor with a yell. Greg's laughter only stopped when the bedroom door flew open a few seconds later and two of Mycroft's security team burst in, only to hurriedly back out again as the sight of two naked men clearly failing very badly at having sex.

Mycroft groaned and pulled himself to his feet, 'I shall have to give them a pay rise now.'

'That was your fault. You shouted.'

'You threw me.'

A thought occurred to Greg, 'Can they always hear us when we are in here?'

The pink that spread across Mycroft's cheeks did nothing to dampen Greg's amusement and he grabbed Mycroft by the hips, pulling him in close and pressing a kiss to the soft skin of his stomach.

'You're a kinky boy, Mycroft Holmes.'

Mycroft pushed him until he was laying back on the bed before leaning over him, 'Oh, I assure you, you have no idea.'

 

#

 

'You're not going to leave me here, are you? Gregory?' Mycroft struggled against the handcuffs that were currently attaching him to the headboard of Greg's bed.

Greg pulled on his coat and bit his lip as he looked down at Mycroft.

'I'll only be a couple of minutes.'

'Gregory, you cannot leave me like this.'

'Well then, you shouldn't have forgotten lube,' Greg's tone was teasing, and although he knew he really shouldn't leave Mycroft alone like that, there was something delicious about the knowledge he had the most powerful man in Britain trapped in his bedroom. And Mycroft did look amazing like that, torn between how turned on he was, and how angry he was.

'I think we need a safe word, Gregory.'

'I agree,' Greg nodded, 'So why don't you think one up while I'm at the shop.'

'Gregory! Don't you leave me here. Gregory Lestrade! Get back here now. Gregory!'

But the only response was Greg's laughter and the slam of the front door.

 

#

 

Suspended. Again. Pending investigation. Again.

Sherlock Bloody Holmes was still the reason for most of the bad things in his life, and he was dead. Greg could never work out how the managed that. In fact, the only person causing him more stress than Sherlock was Mycroft.

The man had insisted on a full investigation, which had been sprung on Gregory three days after Sherlock jumped. Greg had expected it, even before the other man stepped off the roof. But it would have been nice to know he had some support. He wasn't going to get it from John, that was for certain, and Molly had been avoiding him.

And to top it all off he had started having sex dreams about Mycroft, which left him confused and hurt when he woke in the mornings and rubbed his mark and remembered that there wasn't any Mycroft. Not any more.

Almost without him realising it, Greg started to shut down again, and this time it was worse than when his wife left. It was worse than the first time Mycroft ended it. He tried to reason with himself. At least Mycroft just didn't want him. There was John who had been forced to watch his mate kill himself in front of him. Greg tried to remember that. Tried to remind himself that his problems were nothing compared to that. But there was nothing left. And sometimes, when he woke up at night, alone and frightened, he could understand why someone would do what Sherlock had. And if he was honest, there were those dark moments when he considered doing it too.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I honestly have no idea what I'm doing with this anymore, all I know is I've been writing for about 16 hours straight.
> 
> Thank you all for your kind words and kudos. This is my first fic here and it means a lot.
> 
> C

Despite the media interest, the funeral of Sherlock Holmes was a quiet affair. Mycroft had ensured it. Greg wasn't sure what he thought about that. On one hand he knew Sherlock wouldn't have liked a crowd, but on the other hand he thought the man would have been secretly pleased if there had been some sort of spectacle.

'Should have hired a magician,' said a voice at his side.

'Hello John. How are you?'

'I'm standing at Sherlock's funeral beside on of the men that drove him to his death, how do you think I am?'

Greg didn't say anything to that because there was nothing he could say. Instead he focused on not looking at Mycroft who was standing just feet away, his back to them.

'Maybe one of those blokes who make balloon animals,' he offered, and out fo the corner of his eye he saw John's mouth twitch.

'Big brass band and elephants.'

'No. We swore off elephants after the last one.'

They lapsed into silence for a long moment, and Greg was surprised when John spoke again.

'If you fancy a pint later...?'

'Yeah,' Greg said a bit quicker than he really meant to, 'I'd like that.'

 

#

 

Mycroft had was furious when he called Greg. He'd spent most of the day trying to explain why he almost caused an international incident when he had sworn very loudly during a telephone conference with half the G20 and two minor Royals. It wasn't like he could tell the truth and say that Greg was under the desk giving him a blow job at the time.

Anthea had guessed, or had heard, and she had passed the angry stage and into silent disproving fury that only personal assistants could do so well. Mycroft may have been her boss, but he wasn't stupid and remained silent for the duration of the journey home.

Greg had, of course, thought the whole thing was hilarious and refused to apologise, and instead was on his knees with Mycroft in his mouth before the other man had even removed his coat. At Mycroft's surprised sound Greg smiled, humming around him and wondering briefly if Mycroft had remembered to close the door this time.

'You are an evil man, Gregory.'

 

#

 

'Sex dreams?' John laughed, 'About Mycroft?'

'Oi, watch it.'

'But Mycroft?'

'That's my ma- yeah. He's got a great body. And a dirty streak a mile wide.'

'And I've heard all I need to about that subject, thank you,' John took another mouthful from his pint, 'I thought you were getting past all that?'

'Yeah, past the bit where the bloke I love accidentally bonds with me, almost kills me and then ignores me for months? Sure what's to get past,' he caught the look on John's face, 'Sorry.'

There was a pause while each man tried to think of something to say.

'Does it hurt?' Greg blurted out eventually, indicating the mark on John's neck.

'Yeah. It always did when he was hurt or in trouble. Which, let's be honest, was most of the time.'

'And you can still feel it, even though he's gone?'

John shifted in his seat, clearly not wanting to talk about Sherlock, 'Yeah.'

'Sorry.'

But John didn't want sympathy either, for he just shrugged, 'Was great fun trying to explain it to my mum in the first place. And it's not like he could have been thoughtful and done it somewhere a bit less obvious. No, not bloody Sherlock. So now I'm walking around with half the world thinking I'm an omega.'

'You mean instead of the big, strapping alpha you are?'

John glared at him, 'Yeah well, we can't all be eight feet tall.'

'Well, at least you are the perfect height for-'

'Stop it, Greg! I'm warning you.'

Greg signalled for two more pints and sighed, 'Maybe we should start a club.'

'I'm not doing that with you either,' John warned, but he laughed slightly, 'I don't think I'll ever do that again.'

'You did that? Really? To an omega?'

John shrugged, 'You met him. He's not very omega like. Wasn't. And you've done it too. I know that for a fact because I was treated to a long description of Mycrot's private areas.'

'Yeah well, it was different for us. Two alphas. You have to compromise a bit sometimes.'

'I'm surprised. Most alphas would have torn each other apart.'

'We almost did,' Greg reminded him grimly, and for the first time a treacherous thought crossed his mind that maybe it was all for the best after all.

 

#

 

Mycroft was watching Gregory again. He'd stopped until the day Sherlock jumped, but then there was Gregory in his bed, and the whole house had smelled like him after he left, and he gave in to the unfamiliar desire to just see the man, to watch him all the time. It was becoming an obsession that he was finding harder to hide and he briefly wondered if this is what it was like to give into a bond? If so then perhaps he really had done Gregory a service by rejecting him.

There was no audio feed on the camera. It would be pointless inside a busy pub. But Mycroft could clearly see Gregory mouth the word 'omega' and he could see the look of disgust on John's face. Clearly Gregory was repeating what Mycroft had said to him. He closed his eyes and tried to quell the squeeze of pain across his chest. This was exactly why he had avoided bonding in the past, why he had kept his distance and driven each lover away before it got too serious, which was easy to do with betas and omegas. Pushing away another alpha was harder than he'd ever expected.

It was something about the way they carried themselves, the sense of certainty and self assurance without being pushy. The first time Gregory had walked into his office, he might as well have been wearing a sign saying 'You're mine now.'

Mycroft wanted to believe that it was just him, but Gregory pulled everyone into his wake. He'd even managed to charm Anthea, in a much as it was possible to do so.

Anthea had not reacted well to his treatment of Gregory. She may have been an alpha herself, but she was a big advocate of omega rights, and she had not appreciated the slur. She hadn't said anything about it at the time, but she didn't need to, and Mycroft found himself apologising in very expensive ways.

 

#

 

Mycroft had a headache. He'd been working non stop for almost three days when Sherlock had broken into the home of a prominent police officer while stark naked and very high. And then someone knocked on his office door and his evening instantly got better.

'Gregory!'

'Heard your brother's been in a bit of trouble.'

'When isn't he?' Mycroft smiled wearily.

'I thought you could use some dinner. I'd have been here sooner but half of Central London seems to be on lock down,' he tilted his head cheekily, 'You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?'

Mycroft pursed is lips, 'Yes. Anthea caused a bit of a security alert this afternoon.'

'What did she do?'

'She threw her Blackberry and the draft anti-terrorism bill into the Thames.'

Greg couldn't help the snort of laughter, 'Why?'

'I believe she said it was them her or them. I've sent her home for a little lie down. I feel it may take jewellery this time.'

Greg's laugh was loud in the silence of the office, 'Let me get this straight, you're secretary pitches a fit and throws a file of top secret documents into the river, shutting down London at rush hour and you're going to buy her diamonds?'

Mycroft looked suddenly worried, 'You think I should get her a car?'

'Christ, what did you get her for her birthday?'

'I had one of her ex-boyfriends killed.'

Greg stared at Mycroft for a long time, knowing that the man was unlikely to joke about something like that, and torn between his own morals and the strange little thrill he got from the fact that Mycroft was comfortable enough to tell him something like that. He blew out a long breath.

'Yeah, I can see how she'd like something like that. But next year, just get her shoes or something, yeah? God, I dread to think what would happen if she was really pissed off.' Greg bent down and dropped a kiss on top of Mycroft's head before reaching out to grab his hands, pulling him to his feet.

'Oh,' there didn't seem to be anything else to say

'Come on before the crazy ninja lady comes back.'

The following morning there was a post it note stuck to the screen of Greg's computer.

' _I am not a ninja.'_

He laughed as he unlocked his desk, and then stopped abruptly when he found another one stuck to the top of some sensitive paperwork.

_'Or a secretary.'_

 

#

 

Greg had considered not planning a Christmas. After all, the previous one had been such a disaster, and this one wasn't shaping up to be much more promising. But he reckoned if John could do it then he could too. Which was why he was tramping around Tesco on Christmas Eve with nothing except alcohol and cheese in his basket.

His parents had invited him to spend it with them, but once Greg looked at the cost of a flight at Christmas he had declined. Still suspended he couldn't justify spending so much money, not when he wasn't sure he'd even have a job once the investigation was over.

The flat was looking terrible lately too. Dishes went unwashed and he couldn't remember the last time he'd vacuumed. If Mycroft could see him now, Greg thought grimly and then stopped. Mycroft probably could see him, he didn't know. But someone else _definitely_ could.

Anthea was standing just inside the door, looking around with the mild curiosity of someone who had never set foot inside a supermarket and didn't really understand the concept. She gave Greg a distracted sort of smile and returned to watching the people.

'This is for you,' she said, and handed him a manilla envelope, 'It's the results of your investigation.'

'But it's not finished.'

'It is now. Mr Holmes thought you should have this is as soon as possible.'

'Is it good news?' Greg asked, 'Or is this just Mycroft trying to ruin my Christmas?'

Anthea frowned, 'I couldn't possibly say.'

And then she was gone again.

 

#

 

Greg didn't open the envelope that night. Instead he propped it against the fruit bowl and opened a bottle of gin instead. Three hours later and Greg found his phone, returning to sit at the table again. He paused as he considered the right words eventually typing out a text, not trusting himself to speak.

_What are you playing at? - G_

A few minutes later he followed it with another one.

_And tell your spy to stop stalking me. - G_

There was no response, not that he was expecting one. But the following morning there was a rectangle of stiff card laying on the doormat for him.

_Not a stalker._

He smiled, shaking his head and muttering, 'Because that's not creepy at all.'

 

#

 

It became a game between the two of them. One that Anthea seemed to consider more socially acceptable than catchig her boss and his boyfriend having sex in random places. Greg would leave a message for her somewhere obscure and wait to see how long it took Anthea to get a response to him. He found himself smiling at inappropriate times when he came up with another idea.

Not only that, but it gave him a pretty good idea of when he was being watched and to what extent. Even still, he wasn't expecting a response to the note he wrote in steam on the bathroom mirror.

_Pass the soap._

His phone beeped before he even made it back to the bedroom.

_Say please._

 

_#_

 

Mycroft pretended that he didn't know about Anthea and Gregory's interactions, and on occasion he even allowed himself a few moments to consider a particularly challenging exchange. He wasn't sure how many resources Anthea was wasting to keep herself entertained, but it surely couldn't cost less than the operation to retrieve her Blackberry from the bottom of the river.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Greg realised how much he missed Sherlock when he turned around at a crime scene and everyone was following protocol. He mentioned this to John when he met him later that evening.

'I tell you, it was weird. Boiler suits as far as the eye could see and no one was trying to steal anything.'

John laughed into his pint, 'I'm sure there's more evidence in Baker Street than in your evidence room.'

'Yeah, well since I know what else he liked to keep under his bed, I'm not going to go looking. And I'm not just talking about the body parts,' he waggled a finger at John, 'You'd want to have a really good clear out or you could find yourself done for possession.'

'Actually,' John said, carefully avoiding Greg's gaze, 'I'm moving out.'

Greg just stared.

'Oh,' he managed eventually.

'Yeah,' John examined a beer mat, 'I can't stay there any more. Everything smells like him still and I can't...I don't want to.'

'Where will you go?'

'Dunno. Somewhere else.'

'If the money is a problem-'

'It's not,' John cut in too quickly, 'Turns out we could have afforded that cleaner after all.'

'Nah, he'd never have let anyone touch his stuff,' Greg wanted to say something that would make his friend feel better, 'Come on, let's get another round and I'll tell you about this game I've been playing with Anthea.'

 

#

 

And so life went on. John moved to a new flat with Greg absolutely refusing to help him assemble any sort of flat pack, Greg lost more weight than was good for him, but at least the sex dreams had stopped. There was a minor incident at work when the case load built up and Dimmock locked himself in the canteen and refused to come out until someone made all the paper on his desk go away. Donovan suggested just throwing it all in a pile and setting fire to the lot, and for a moment Greg was tempted. But he doubted that adding arson to his record was going to help him come his next review.

And all the while there was the dull ache that came with his separation from Mycroft.

All that was before he even addressed the issue of sexual frustration, which at least he could talk to John about.

'You could just, you know, hire someone,' John suggested, earning himself a snort from Greg.

'Are you seriously suggesting to a police officer that he use prostitutes?'

'Well, I wasn't going to put it quite like that. But, you know, you could. It's an option is all I'm saying.'

Greg lifted his beer, 'Can you imagine what Mycroft would say about that?'

He actually wasn't surprised when his phone vibrated with a message a few seconds later, and he laughed as he held it out for John to see.

_Unknown. However Anthea says no._

_'_ That is...'

'Brilliant, right?'

'I was going to say worrying. But, okay.' John leaned forward in his chair, 'Alright, so no prostitutes...'

'No.'

'You could try dating again.'

'Because that's worked so well until now,' Greg groaned, scrubbing at his eyes with his hands, 'I have to do something. I can't just sit at home with my hand. And I can't suck myself off, God knows I've tried.'

John made a choking noise and turned very pink when Greg looked at him, and he wondered briefly what weird things had gone on inside 221B, before deciding that he didn't really want to know. There were some mental images he could definitely do without.

'What about you then?' he asked instead.

'Thought about it.'

'Prostitutes?'

'Dating. I used to date a lot. Before Sherlock.'

'And he frightened them all away.'

'He frightened most people away. And he's the sweet one. I can't imaging what it's like living with Mycro- Oh shit. I'm sorry, Greg. You didn't. I forgot.'

He looked so apologetic that Greg couldn't be upset, instead his shrugged, 'It's fine. Really.'

Greg excused himself to get another round, and when he returned John was holding out his mobile to show Greg the text message he had just received. There was no number, but there didn't need to be.

_Not fine._

John accepted his glass and dropped his phone back onto the table, 'That is really scary.'

 

#

 

Before he'd met Mycroft Greg hadn't paid attention to the news outside of how it directly impacted on his own work. But then he started overhearing conversations about terrorism, politics, the United Nations and some frankly terrifying comments about nuclear arms that he was certain weren't for his ears. Although Mycroft didn't keep things from him, he didn't volunteer information either, and sometimes Greg only knew the shit had hit the fan when Mycroft had to cancel dinner before dropping off the face of the planet for a few days. Those were the times that Greg _really_ paid attention to the news.

Only once did he break and contact Anthea.

It had been all over the news for most of the day. A bombing outside some Embassy in a country Greg couldn't point to on a map. It was being covered by every channel because of the thirty five people who had been inside it at the time. High ranking politicians and diplomats. As soon as he felt the stab of pain radiate from his mark, Greg knew Mycroft was among them.

He watched in silence as the body count rose until he felt he couldn't breathe.

_Tell me. - G_

Minutes passed. It was the longest Anthea had ever taken to respond and that only increased Greg's level of anxiety. But finally his phone vibrated in his hand.

_He's fine._

That was all Greg needed to know.

 

#

 

Anthea was livid, but she forced herself to remain polite until the doctor left the room, then she rounded on Mycroft, who had just had his neck redressed.

'Anthea,' Mycroft warned.

'It's been months. And I know he provided you with-'

'Yes. Saliva in a jar.'

'Why didn't you use it?'

'One does have limits.'

She raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows, 'And one now has a very severe infection.'

'It will heal.'

'Sir, we're hundreds of miles from a decent hospital, and someone tried to kill you.'

'Not just me, dear.'

She pursed her lips as the doctor came back, 'Don't make me call your mother.'

'You wouldn't dare.'

Anthea said nothing, she just picked up her phone and turned to leave the room.

'Where are you going?'

'There's someone I need to update. Sir.' she added meaningfully.

 

#

 

_House. Tomorrow._

Anthea's message had been short and to the point, and Greg sighed, wondering what Mycroft was up to now. But it wasn't Mycroft waiting for him when he arrived. Instead he came face to face with Anthea, who led him through to wear a rather surprised looking Mycroft was reading the paper. She gestured for him to enter the room ahead of her before turning to close the door.

'Sort it out,' she snapped.

The silence that was left in her wake was more than a little uncomfortable, and Greg considered just turning and leaving again, but instead he found himself just standing there, inhaling Mycroft's scent. He felt like he'd never taken a real breath before.

'You're bleeding,' he accused.

'Minor injury. Nothing to be concerned about.'

The door opened again and Anthea came back in, practically slamming the tea tray down in front of her boss. She shot him a look as if she knew he'd been lying, and then turned to Greg.

'His mark,' was all she said before striding back out.

Greg waiting until her footsteps disappeared before he turned to Mycroft.

'Let me see.'

'I assure you it's-'

But Greg was tired, and he just needed to get away from Mycroft before he made a fool of himself in front of the man. He yanked Mycroft's collar down and had the dressing torn away before Mycroft could speak again, not caring if he hurt him. Then he stopped, looking at the mark on Mycroft's neck and sighing.

'You're an idiot,' he hissed as he leaned forward.

'Gregory, what are you doing?'

Greg didn't reply as his mouth came to rest over the mark he'd put there months ago. It was hot under his skin, and Mycroft shuddered beneath him as Greg gently lapped at it. After a few seconds of resistance, Mycroft tilted his neck back to allow Greg access, his eyes closed in relief. When Mycroft let out a small moan, Greg smiled against his neck, only pausing in his actions for a second.

This close to Mycroft's bare skin the scent of the man was almost overwhelming, and Greg just wanted to throw him down and take him right there on the floor. But the scent of blood reminded him why he was there. And how many favours Anthea was going to owe him for making him do this. Making him come to the house and be left alone with the man.

He wasn't sure when his lips moved away from the mark to press against the bare skin beside it, but Mycroft didn't push him away, so Greg let his tongue glide across the smooth skin, savouring the taste and the heady sensation of having Mycroft so close to him, their bodies pressed against each other.

Who knew what would have happened if Greg's phone hadn't started rining, pulling them both back to attention. Greg leaned away from Mycrot, unwilling to meet his eye.

'Sorry,' he said and was halfway to the door before he realised that Mycroft was still sitting where he left him, a slightly dazed look on his face.

 

#

 

'You couldn't have given me five more minutes?' Greg muttered as he climbed the stairs to John's spare flat.

'If that's all it was going to take then you probably weren't missing much.'

'What's all this about, John?'

The smaller man shifted nervously, 'Well, I took your advice and started to sort through some of the stuff I brought with me.'

'And?'

'Well, I found some...stuff. And I'm not sure what to do with it.'

'You called me over here to tell you what to do with your husband's porn collection?'

'No. The heroin.'

 

#

 

Greg marvelled at how his life had led him to the point where he was instructing a doctor on how to dispose of a rather impressive stash of drugs.

'I'd have taken them to the station, but I wasn't sure how to explain why I didn't do it six months ago.' John said.

Six months. Shit.

'What were you doing anyway?' John asked as Greg flushed the toilet again.

'Licking Mycroft.'

The silence seemed to stretch on forever until eventually John cleared his throat.

'Um... possibly a stupid question, but _why?'_

'Don't ask. Just keep flushing.

 

#

 

Sherlock had known the second he arrived at the crime scene.

'You're a disgusting man, Lestrade!'

His statement caused several heads to swivel in their direction, and Greg would have been embarrassed if he wasn't too busy starting at Sherlock's back as the man strode away into the rain, his long coat fanning out behind him.

'He gone again?' John appeared at his side and passed Greg a styrofoam cup full of very bad coffee.

'You deserve a medal.'

'What set him off this time?' John blew on his coffee.

'Hard to tell, but I think he realised I've been sleeping with his brother.'

The look on Anderson's face when John spat his coffee over most of the evidence kept Greg amused for weeks afterwards.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft watched Anthea press send on her Blackberry before returning to her emails. He tried to quell the bubble of jealousy as he realised she was texting Gregory. Gregory had started to message her for help with the crossword, and she responded with random words of the day for him to guess. It was childish and stupid, but Mycroft felt left out. They had been games that he had played with Gregory while they lay in bed on lazy mornings, or when Gregory was working late and Mycroft was travelling.

Anthea was halfway through an email to one of Mycroft's Asian counterparts when she was interrupted by the text alert. She smiled to herself and typed a quick response before her expression returned to normal.

Mycroft couldn't help himself.

'What is today's word?' he asked casually.

Anthea fixed him with a steady stare, 'Mamihlapinatapai.'

Mycroft felt his own expression harden, 'Really? How interesting.'

'Hmm.' Anthea went back to work.

 

#

 

He waited until Anthea had gone home for the night before settling himself behind his desk and pulling up the CCTV footage from his house and rewatching his exchange with Gregory. It was barely a minute from Greg entered the room until he was leaving again, but Mycroft was still surprised by how intimate the action was to watch and he found himself smiling at other memories.

Greg had been quite excited to learn about the extent of the security system inside Mycroft's home and had spent a lot of time creeping through the rooms, trying to beat the motion sensors or flashing himself at the hidden cameras. Until Mycroft had to ask him to stop.

It had all come to a head, so to speak, when Mycroft received an alert that the system in his home had been activated. He'd been on a plane on his way to Brussels at the time and was powerless to do much other than pull the security feed up on his laptop, half expecting to see Sherlock rooting through his things. Instead he saw a naked Gregory Lestrade dancing through his living room and he groaned, hand already reaching for his phone to cancel the police car no doubt already en route.

Gregory couldn't be more apologetic when Mycroft called him the following morning.

'I'm sorry Myc, I was really drunk and it seemed like a funny idea at the time.'

The last thing Mycroft was going to do was admit that he'd watched the footage on a loop for almost an hour when he was alone in his room later that evening.

They made a compromise, Greg wouldn't trigger the security while Mycroft was out of the country, and Mycroft would show him where the camera in the bedroom was hidden.

That had certainly made from some highly creative evenings.

Mycroft had disabled the camera after the incident with Gregory, the footage of which was still deep in his hard drive where it had been saved in those awful moments it looked like Gregory would die. Mycroft hadn't looked at it since, but he pulled it up then and watched with shock at how his body rocked on top of Gregory, both of them slick with sweat, his back running with nail marks and his skin flushed.

He watched as Gregory pulled him closer still. Then there was a moment of stillness and Mycroft paused the recording, bile rising in his throat. He wondered if Gregory had watched it. He knew there was a copy of it sealed away at the Yard where it had been deposited as evidence by Sally Donovan at Christmas. There was a chance, of course, that Greg did not know it was there. Since the case had been dropped there was no need to it to remain in evidence, but Mycroft was aware that any attempt to remove it would make Gregory suspicious.

Forcing himself to hit play once more, Mycroft watched how quickly the scene changed. He watched himself panic and run from the room, and he watched with a breaking heart as Gregory tried to get up to follow him.

The look of hurt and confusion on Gregory's face was one had missed at the time, but now he couldn't drag his gaze away, and he knew without a doubt that he would be seeing that look in his mind for a long time.

 

#

 

When it came down to it, it was all because of John Watson.

Well, Mycroft corrected himself, it started because of John Watson, and the resulting fall out was due to _sentiment._

Mycroft had debated long and hard with himself before giving in and picking up his phone. He would have called, should have called, but he just couldn't.

 


	12. Chapter 12

 Greg read the text again on his way up the street. But no matter how many times he did, it still said the same thing.

_Please come. Urgent. MH_

His calls had gone unanswered, and for a while Greg debated whether to go or not. In the end he did what he always did when he didn't have an answer for a problem. He text Anthea.

_What's going on? - G_

_Will explain upon arrival._

Wow. Well, that was a new one, and it was that text that drove Greg to make his way across the city to Mycroft's office where the other man was waiting for him.

'Gregory.'

'What's this about, Mycroft? I've got a lot on.'

Mycroft indicated for Greg to sit, 'It's a personal matter.'

'We don't have personal matters any more,' he flinched as Mycroft shifted in his seat, 'If you're going tell me that you've given me clap I swear to God I'm going to lamp you.'

It took Mycroft a moment to translate Greg's words, and when he did the edges of his mouth twisted in distate.

'No. I assure you that's not the case. I wanted to speak with you about John Watson.'

'John? Don't say he's done something stupid. He's been so much better lately-'

'He has met someone.'

Greg just gaped at the man sitting opposite him.

'Sorry? When you called me here I thought I was going to be told that war has broken out in Camden, not that John has a new boyfriend.'

'Girlfriend. And it's vital that the relationship is not allowed to continue.'

'And why is this any of my business? Or yours for that matter? We should be happy for him. He's moving on. Isn't that what we all wanted?'

'If John continues with this relationship then the fall out would be highly destructive and I don't think even I could contain the damage.'

'Look, Myc, if he's moved on then that's good. Right? I'm not going to get involved. He couldn't pine over Sherlock forever.'

Greg had his hand on the door handle before Mycroft spoke again.

'Sherlock is alive.'

'Say that again, Mycroft.' Greg did not move.

'Sherlock is alive.'

'Sherlock took a swan dive off the roof of Bart's.'

'Sherlock is currently working as one of our operatives in Eastern Europe.'

'Doing what?'

'That's classified.'

And then Greg moved. He had turned and crossed the room, his hands gripping Mycroft's jacket before the other man could say another word.

'Don't give me that shit, Mycroft. Not me. Not over this!'

Mycroft swallowed and considered, 'He's been dealing with Moriarty's network.'

Greg let go of Mycroft abruptly, 'I know what that means when _you_ use a phrase like that.' he ran his hands through his hair and let himself collapse onto the nearest chair, 'You could have told me.'

'I'm telling you now.'

'Because you need my help. Actually, what _do_ you expect me to do?'

'Convince Dr Watson to end his relationship.'

'Because if Sherlock comes back to find that his mate has-'

'Well Sherlock should have thought about that before he faked his own death.'

'And if he comes back and finds John with someone else then this time Sherlock's death won't be faked.'

'Mycroft!'

'They are bonded, Greg, and you don't just get over the loss of a mate.'

Mycroft seemed to realise what he had said at exactly the same time Greg did. He licked his lips as he backed up a step, and for a moment Greg actually thought he was going to apologise, but he didn't give him a chance to speak.

'You,' he growled, leaning towards him, the anger in his voice heavily laced with all the pain he'd been dealing with for months, 'You are actually going to stand there and say _that_ to _me?'_

Before Mycroft could respond, Greg did was moving again, but this time it was to close the distance between them until he was in striking distance of the other man, at which point he pulled back and punched him firmly on the chin.

 

#

 

Detective Inspector Lestrade had taken the money.

Of course, there was always a chance that he would. But Mycroft had been so certain that the Inspector was someone of a higher moral standing than some of Sherlock's other known associates, it was disappointing to be proven wrong. Letting himself into a private room at his club, he was surprised to find the man himself sitting in one of the red leather chairs, his leg crossed and a small stack of notes on the table in front of him, secured with an elastic band.

'Detective Inspector.'

'I just wanted to see what it felt like to carry that much money around. Doesn't look as much as I expected. So I had it all changed into five pound notes, which sort of bulked it out a bit.'

Mycroft's lips twitched.

'And what exactly did you think twenty thousand pounds would look like?'

'I thought I'd get to carry it around in a suitcase and pretend I was in one of those films, you know? I had my sunglasses ready and everything,' he sighed and nodded his head towards the pile of cash, 'It's all there. Well, except for the money I gave Sherlock for a cab, but there's a receipt for that too.'

'Why would Sherlock need money for a cab?'

'Well, he seemed to have forgotten his trousers at the time, and I've no idea where he'd hide cash like that, but I don't think anyone would really want to find out.'

Mycroft sighed, and set his breifcase down on the floor. He was just about to offer the other man a drink, when he realised that Lestrade was already on his feet and fixing Mycroft with a steely glare.

'Don't try to bribe be again, Mr Holmes. Or I shall have to arrest you.'

Mycroft watched him go, his estimation of the police officer rising with every step the man took. Until that was he paused in the doorway and flashed Mycroft a cheeky smile over his shoulder, displaying his perfectly straight, white teeth.

'Thanks for the drink, by the way.'

 

#

 

On closer inspection 'the drink' Gregory had helped himself to while waiting for Mycroft, was half a bottle of thirty five year old single malt that Mycroft knew for a fact had been locked at the back of the drinks cabinet.

Yes. He had a feeling he could come to like Gregory Lestrade.

 

#

 

_Floccinaucinihilipilification – G_

 

_#_

 

The text came later that evening as Mycroft was finishing for the day. To her credit Anthea didn't even look at her phone while Mycroft was in the room. But he found himself slightly irritated, knowing full well who was in contact with his assistant.

'Will that be all today, sir?' Anthea asked.

Mycroft closed the file he was working on and handed it to her to be locked away safely overnight.

'Yes.'

 

#

 

_Used when thinking about my life - G_

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This took a bit of a silly turn somewhere around 4am this morning. Sorry.

Time passed.

Sherlock was acquitted.

Greg and Molly didn't work out, but he was still dating.

John moved in with Mary.

Sherlock was still playing dead.

Anthea stopped texting Greg back.

Mycroft still turned up at the occasional crime scene, but he kept his distance and he had no communication with Greg outside of the rare nod.

Life was moving on.

And it fucking hurt.

 

#

 

Something was going to happen. Lestrade could feel it.

It started when John went to visit Baker Street.

He hadn't been back to the flat for two years. Not since Sherlock's funeral. Greg eyed him suspiciously over the top of his pint.

'What aren't you telling me?'

And John had smiled, just a little, shy and unsure, but he'd smiled.

'I'm going to ask Mary to bond.'

 

#

 

Greg knew the car would be waiting for him, and he almost didn't get into it. He was still surprised when he slid into the back seat and found himself facing Mycroft, for once minus Anthea. They stared at each other, Greg leaning back in his seat, his legs open, Mycroft sitting straight, coat folded neatly on the chair beside him.

'We have to stop meeting like this, Mr Holmes.'

'Weren't you ever told not to get into cars with strange men?'

'You should hear some of the things I've done in cars with strange men.'

His cheek was rewarded by a small blush and a softening of Mycroft's eyes.

'So,' Greg said, steeling himself before the mood turned into something niether of them wanted to deal with, 'I assume you wanted to talk to me about John and your brother.'

'An unfortunate timing,' Mycroft looked annoyed, his plans clearly disrupted, 'We had hoped to keep Sherlock in the field for a little longer, but as it turns out John Watson is not going to be his only distraction.'

Greg bit his lip, noting Mycroft's careful tone, 'And you're not going to tell me what that other _distraction_ is, are you? No, instead of hearing about whatever national emergency requires Sherlock's attention, I get to babysit John.'

'You get to prepare for an imminent terrorist attack on London.'

It was rare that Mycroft was so frank, and Greg felt his heart speed up as he watched the other man calmly pass him across a file.

'This is all classified, of course. I believe I can count on your _discretion.'_

Greg was already flipping through the pages, but he looked up and met Mycroft's eye.

'You know you can, Myc.'

Mycroft nodded curtly and smoothed an imaginary crease on his impeccable suit, waiting for Lestrade to fully grasp the information he had just been provided with.

For his part Lestrade was doing an admirable job of not reacting too extremely to what he was reading.

'I'm in homicide,' he said eventually.

'Yes.' Pause, 'But there's no one else I can trust with this. We have been infiltrated, and until I can be certain who...I need someone here. Getting ready.'

'Here? Where are you going to be?'

'I'm going to try and retrieve my brother dearest.'

'You said 'try'.'

'Yes.'

Greg licked his lips and looked out of the window as they passed over the bridge, taking in the sight of the Houses of Parliament and the murky water below them.

'There's a chance you won't come back.'

It wasn't a question, so Mycroft didn't answer it. Instead they looked out of their respective windows as the world passed by, unaware of the seriousness of the their conversation.

'Myc,' Greg said eventually, 'What will happen to me if you get killed?'

Mycroft had clearly anticipated the question, although answering it seemed to pain him.

'We should be far enough apart, and our...bond long enough dissipated that you should survive.'

Should.

Neither of them spoke again until the car pulled to a stop in front of Greg's flat.

'Tell me the truth, Myc,' Greg turned to him, 'Is that why you pushed me away?'

'To have the potential of death or injury to another on one's conscience...'

'You let me think it was me.' Greg tried to steady his voice, 'Two years and you let me think it was me, and then you waltz back, tell me you are running off to do something that's probably going to get you killed, but it's all fine because I get to stay here and save London.'

'You're being rather dramatic, Gregory.'

Greg shook his head and opened the door, glaring back over his shoulder at Mycroft one last time.

'If I didn't love you do much, I'd punch you in the face right now.'

And then he was gone, slamming the door behind him.

 

#

 

'Okay,' Greg leaned back in his chair kicking his feet up onto the handcrafted coffee table that probably cost as much as his flat, 'Have you ever done it in an aeroplane?'

'I'm not playing this game, Gregory.'

Greg studied his partner's face, before breaking out that dazzling grin again, 'So that's a no.'

'Gregory.'

'Have you ever done it in a lift.'

At that Mycroft's face darkened as he passed Greg a glass of wine, 'You are perfectly aware that I have.'

'Oh yeah,' Greg took the glass and set it down on the table before pulling Mycroft towards him by the hips until the man was forced to sit down beside him, 'Because I was there, wasn't I.'

Mycroft tried to sound disaproving, which was difficult when Greg was biting at his lower lip like that.

'And in the back of the car,' Greg's tongue swiped across Mycroft's lip as she murmured, 'And your office, and that time on the train when-'

'Be quiet,' Mycroft kissed him back hard.

'That's not what you normally say,' Greg laughed, pulling back to tug at Mycroft's tie.

As Greg forced him down onto the rug, whispering obscenities in his ear while he stroked Mycroft slowly, Mycroft fought back a moan and realised he could really come to love this man.

 

#

 

It didn't matter that it wasn't his division. It didn't matter what time of the day or night it had him running across the city. It didn't matter what the weather was like or what he was putting on hold to do it. Every time Gregory Lestrade heard Baker Street on the police radio he dropped what he was doing and he ran.

Donovan had tried to reason with him. Hell, he'd tried to reason with himself. It was a long street. There were _lots_ of buildings on it. Lots of shops and flats. But, he countered every time, only one of them contained an eccentric genius with no impulse control. So he _knew._ Every time he heard it, he _knew._ And so he ran.

So that's where Mycroft found him, standing in the middle of the kitchen at 221B and laughing so hard he thought he was going to be sick.

Sherlock was no where to be seen, having fled the scene of the crime long before Gregory or Mycroft could get there. John, on the other hand, was standing completely still in the middle of the room, his hands clenched by his side and his posture stiff. He was looking straight ahead, using all of his energy to keep his breathing even as the little flat filled with police officers, all trying not to touch anything, every surface of the room was coated in a thick gloop, including John.

'What on earth!' Mycroft stopped short of entering the kitchen, but he prodded a gelatinous clump, and turned to look at the Detective Inspector who was red faced and breathless, 'What is this?'

Greg tried to stand up straight, 'It's a sheep.'

'A sheep?'

Mycroft's incredulous look set Greg laughing again.

'What happened to this...sheep?'

'It exploded,' John's voice was dangerous.

'How does a sheep explode?'

John turned his head slightly, his normally kind eyes were hard, 'Because that's what happens when it's put in the microwave.'

'Sherlock put a sheep in the microwave?'

John blinked just once at Mycroft, 'Most of it. Yes.'

'Oh, good Lord,' Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, 'Do I want to know why?'

'I think I'm being punished for something I did in a past life,' John said quietly, and Greg had to leave the room, slipping on the bloody floor and gasping for air. After a second Mycroft followed the Detective Inspector out, feeling that John Watson was not the only one being punished.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one.

 Donovan knocked on the door to Greg's office five days after Mycroft left. She seemed anxious to say something, but at the same time unwilling to speak. Since Sherlock she had lost her nerve when it came to speaking out, doubting herself in a way she never had before.

'Sal?'

'Just checking that's you're alright. You've been a bit...odd.'

Apart from trying to hold off a terrorist attack while my mate is putting himself in danger God knows where trying to get his junkie brother out of whatever trouble he's landed himself in, Greg thought miserably.

But he was touched by her concern, 'I'm fine.'

 

#

 

Greg's phone went off as he was leaving the office.

_Truculence._

 

_#_

 

The following afternoon.

_Resilience._

 

_#_

 

It was the early hours of the morning almost a week after Mycroft left before Greg received a message that finally made him breathe easier, and without meaning to, he chuckled softly to himself as he put his phone back on the nightstand.

_Justifiable homicide?_

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This ended up a bit fluffier than I was really aiming for. But don't worry, I'm gonna make my boys cry.
> 
> And thank you all for the wonderful and kind comments. It's kept me going when I doubted this.

Mary was nice. That just made what was about to happen all the worse. John had introduced her to Greg with a beaming smile. She was funny, Greg realised as they chatted, and had a sense of calm about her that contrasted sharply with John's previous life.

He accepted the tea from John and laughed as he listened to the story of how they met, and he felt like a real bastard every second he was in the room.

 

#

 

Greg knew he wouldn't hear any more from Anthea. She probably shouldn't have even been contacting him at all. So he had fallen back out of the habit of listening for his phone, or waiting on calls that never came. God knows he'd given up expecting those things from Mycroft years ago.

Work dragged and he was jumpy. Every time his door opened he half expected it to be Sherlock sweeping in and mouthing off about something. He found that he was equally dreading it and looking forward to it. It had been a weighty secret to keep. But John would likely never speak to him again. And Greg didn't even want to think about what was going to happen there.

Instead he buried himself in the file Mycroft had given him, and tried to work out a plan. Something was going to happen, that much was clear. But he didn't work in anti-terror. Murder, by comparison, was wonderfully straight forward.

That was something he never expected to hear himself say.

 

#

 

'Alright,' John finally asked, 'Explain to me how it works.'

'How what works?

'The sex?'

Across the room Sherlock straightened slightly in his seat. He still had his back to them as he looked down the eye piece of his microscope, but he had obviously taken a sudden interest in the conversation. That made Greg slightly uncomfortable. It was one thing to talk and laugh about sex with John, but he didn't feel right talking about sex in front of his partner's brother, so instead he tried to laugh it off.

'What happened to the 'I'm a doctor, I know everything' thing?'

'You know what I mean.'

Greg did know what he meant, but if he had to talk about it then he was at least going to get the satisfaction of making the other man say it aloud.

'Sorry, John, I'm not sure I do.'

'Oh for crying out loud,' Sherlock practically shouted across the room, 'He wants to know who has to play omega.'

John and Greg exchanged a glance at the bitter tone in Sherlock's voice. That was another conversation they'd had more than once.

 

#

 

'It's weird,' John said to Greg, 'It's like, he's not bothered by his gender. But it bothers him that people think it should bother him.'

Greg nodded. His brain was slightly fuzzy from the whisky, but he was sure he was following what John was saying.

'He knows omegas are...' John waved his hand trying to find a polite way of saying 'inferior' -a word which had fallen out of use since he met Sherlock, 'And he doesn't care because...because...'

'Because he just doesn't.' Greg thought that statement over in his head after he said it, and he was pretty sure it made sense.

'Yeah. But if you told him, if you reminded him, then he'd get all...Sherlocky.'

Greg grinned drunkedly, 'Sherlocky? That's a word now?'

John wrinkled his nose as he thought about it, 'It should be.'

There was another pause in the conversation as the two men tried to make sense of what they were thinking. Eventually Greg took another long drink and then pointed the glass at John.

'Sherlock's problem is that he doesn't think he's an omega.'

John nodded, Greg's words making perfect sense at two am.

'He doesn't see himself as an omega,' Greg repeated as if to get his point across, 'Just _your_ omega.'

 

#

 

In 221B John was looking at Greg, clearly expecting some sort of answer. Sherlock was glowering down at whatever he was examining, shooting off hostile vibes.

'It's, um,' Greg licked his lips, 'It's not really like that.'

If Sherlock hadn't been in the room then Greg would have spoken more freely about some of the difficulties he and Mycroft had with sex. Oh, mutual hand jobs had been fine, but when it came to actual penetration, things had been a little more... _psychological._

 

_#_

 

 _'_ Stop! What are you doing?' Mycroft pulled away from him and was on the other side of the bed before Greg could blink.

Sitting up Greg looked at the other man, who's face was creased in confusion.

'I thought you'd done-'

'Of course I have. But not-'

'Oh. OH!' Greg felt his eyes go wide as he realised, 'I just thought-'

'That I'd play omega for you?' Mycroft was out of bed and pulling on a dressing gown.

'No. Mycroft, I just didn't think.'

Mycroft ducked his head, 'I don't think this is going to work. Perhaps we should just-'

Greg was beside him, catching hold of the other man's face and tilting his chin, forcing Mycroft to look at him.

'I'm sorry. I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to do.'

 

#

 

They lasted four days. Four days of stroking and rutting before the conversation came up again.

'You've done it before?' Mycroft asked over dinner, 'Been...taken.'

Greg almost choked on his beer at the delicate way Mycroft phrased it. He nodded, aware he was blushing, and not exactly sure how Mycroft would take the revelation of Greg's kinky side.

'What was it like?'

'Well,' Greg thought back to the first time, 'At the start it felt wrong. I mean, really wrong.' he shuddered slightly at that. The memory was not entirely pleasant, 'And I swore I would never do it again.'

'But you did.'

'Yeah. I was piss drunk the second time, and it had been one of those nights where the boundaries just kept getting pushed and...well, it seemed like the dirtiest thing we could possibly do. And I suppose that was a really big turn on.'

Mycroft pushed his chicken across his plate as he considered this, no longer looking at Greg. The conversation was dropped after that, but Greg knew it wasn't the end of it.

 

#

 

The play had been awful, and to compensate both Greg and Mycroft had overindulged a little too much at the bar during the interval. Greg had given up watching the actors since he had no idea what was going on anyway, and instead had taken to watching Mycroft, who of course was pretending he hadn't noticed what Greg was doing.

Half way through the fourth act, emboldened by wine and very turned on by the way Mycroft was idly tracing patterns on the programme on his lap, Greg leaned forward, running his hand under the glossy brochure and up he inside of Mycroft's thigh and pressed his mouth against Mycroft's ear.

'If we leave now,' he breathed, just loud enough for Mycroft to hear, 'I will take you home and I will let you do the dirtiest possible things to me.'

Mycroft swallowed and turned to look at Greg, the skin on his neck turning red and his eyes blown wide with sudden lust, 'Christ.'

Greg leaned back into his own chair with a cheeky quirk of a smile.

The speed that Mycroft dragged him back home was almost indecent. And then clothes were shed and things became _very_ indecent on the floor of Greg's flat.

 

#

 

'We just sort of worked it out.'

Greg didn't tell John about the psychological games that took place as each alpha battled for dominance, or how sometimes things were pushed right up to the line.

'It's give and take.'

John nodded as if he had any idea what Greg meant.

'Anything really...bad?'

Oh God, if only he could explain _that_ to John. Maybe, one day when Sherlock wasn't around, he would tell him that tying Mycroft to the bed had been a bad idea and how the man was a nervous wreck when Greg came back just a few minutes later, or the way Greg had reacted the first time Mycroft tried to take him from behind. The only word he could use was panic, and it was only then that he understood the vulnerability and submission. But they'd worked it out, found a compromise.

 

#

 

'Give and take.'

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Greg and waited for him to go on.

'Whoever is being...you know...'

'I believe the word is penetrated, Gregory.'

'Yeah, w-well, um, whoever that is, they're in control.'

Mycroft snorted in amusement, 'That's not-'

'No. Here me out, Myc. Just think about it. No one is more alpha than the other. It's give and take.'

 

#

 

Mycroft rolled off Greg, slick with sweat, the muscles in his legs burning. He didn't even want to think about how sore other parts of him would be later.

'You know,' he said eventually, 'I think you might be onto something.'

In the dark Greg laughed and kissed the top of Mycroft's head.

'Told you.'

 


	16. Chapter 16

'Don't call me that,' Mycroft snapped, turning his head away from Greg to look out the window.

'It's your name.'

'My name is Mycroft.'

'That's what I said. Myc.'

'Mycroft. Do I look like a Myc?'

'It's too dark, I can't tell.'

'You are insufferable.'

'You're adorable.'

'You're drunk.'

'So are you.'

There was silence for a second then Greg spoke again.

'Myc- no, sorry. I've had too much wine to struggle all the way to the end. So Myc it will have to be.'

Despite himself, Mycroft laughed.

 

#

 

Greg couldn't have stopped himself for a million quid. He put on his best pirate voice as the door to his office opened, 'Argh. It's Captain John!'

John was unimpressed and glared at him. At least, that's what Greg thought he was doing. It was a bit hard to tell the exact expression when one of John's eyes was covered by a surgical dressing.

'Hillarious.'

Greg offered him tea, 'What happened?'

John gave an overly bright smile, just the wrong side of sarcastic, 'Do you know what happens when you get hit in the eye by flying crockery? Because I do.'

'He threw plates at you?'

'No, not at me,' John held up his hands, 'But apparently the face on the wall was looking at him funny.'

Greg sighed and ran his rough hands over his face, knowing only too well what that meant.

'Right,' he was already reaching for his phone.

'It'll have to be rehab this time,' John clenched and unclenched his hand, 'I just can't afford-'

'Don't worry about it.'

 

#

 

Greg groaned when Sally Donovan approached him with a determined expression.

'Not this again, Sal.'

'When was the last time you had a shag?'

Several heads in the office turned to look, and Greg swore he heard someone snigger. Clenching his jaw tight to stop himself saying, or, more accurately, shouting, something he might regret, Greg pointed to his office.

'You can't say things like that.'

'Just looking out for your wellbeing.'

'Well stop it.'

She folded her arms and leaned against the doorframe.

'You didn't answer my question.'

'Because it's none of your business.'

'I thought we were all friends here, sir.'

Greg took a deep breath. Donovan's smile was starting to get on his nerves.

'Look,' she unfolded her arms and stood up straight again, 'No offence, but you're not getting any younger-'

'Thanks.'

'And it's not good for you to be on your own.'

'I'm not on my own. I date.'

'Yeah, and that's working out so well for you,' Sally bit her lip and studied him, 'Look, why don't you let me-'

'Not a chance.' Greg held up his hand to stop her. He wasn't going to be set up by his staff. There were just some lines that shouldn't be crossed.

'Alright,' Sally shrugged, 'But if you change your mind...'

'I won't.'

 

#

 

It could be missiles, Greg mused, pulling out the file again, bombs. Toxic gas. Was that even a thing? He had taken to carrying the file around with him, studying it in quiet moments at work, pouring over it for hours at home despite the fact that he already knew it by heart, but he kept looking at it just in case he had missed something, some clue. He was so sick of reading the same words over and over that sometimes he felt he was in serious danger of pulling an Anthea and chucking the whole lot in the river.

Christ, Mycroft's face would be a picture if he did.

The thought of Mycroft sobered him up instantly, and he bent his head over a selection of photographs. Mycroft had trusted him with this.

It had been harder than he ever would have imagined to collect information without giving himself away. At least his interest in politics and international affairs had already been put down to his previous relationship with Mycroft, and so far his sudden obsession with them had gone more or less unnoticed.

The most difficult thing was the fact that he had no one to talk it through with. Mycroft had warned him there was a mole, but neither of them knew where, or who. Greg was used to working as part of a team, laying out the evidence and talking through the facts. He wasn't used to relying entirely on his own brain and the small file Mycroft had managed to pull together before he left. He could probably trust John Watson. After all, if Mycroft was pulling Sherlock in then surely he was prepared for John to be included in some capacity.

But if he told John then he might let something slip about his mate, and that was something he really wanted to stay as far away from as possible.

All he really knew for sure was that something was going to happen. Soon. Somewhere.

He couldn't evacuate all of London.

Could he?

He shook his head to clear that thought. Of course he couldn't. Although Mycroft could probably arrange it, it would raise a lot of questions and put more than just himself in the firing line. There was no way even Lord Holmes would escape unscathed after it emerged he handed such sensitive information to a lowly police officer.

And why exactly was he going to such lengths for Mycroft Bloody Holmes? Was he really that pathetic that he would allow himself to be dragged into a situation like this, with tens of thousands of lives at stake while Mycroft himself was conveniently out of the country?

Anger flared through him and he shoved the file back into his drawer. How dare Mycroft put this on him! And Greg had fallen for it, hadn't he. He'd just sat there and lapped up all the words about trust , and he'd forced himself to read that information over and over, to visualise all the terrible things that could happen and all for the attention of a man who had made it repeatedly clear that he saw Greg as nothing more than someone he used to sleep with sometimes. Someone he could just dismiss, someone he could leave alone and bleeding to death in a hospital bed without a second thought.

Well Gregory Lestrade was done with that. He wasn't going to run around following Mycroft's every order like some stupid omega needing validation.

He slammed the drawer, half tempted to leave unlocked just to see what would happen, and went to the door.

'Sal?

 

#

 

'I'm not eating that.'

Mycroft rolled his eyes theatrically, 'Oh Gregory!'

'Don't give me all that 'Oh Gregory' crap. Bread isn't supposed to be black.'

'Your toast is black.'

Greg glared at his partner across the table, searching for a suitable retort as the waiter hovered nervously beside them with his basket of truly scary looking bread rolls.

'I hate you,' was all he could manage, the effect spoiled by the way he was laughing at the time.

 

#

 

She was nice. A beta friend of Sally's she introduced him to as part of her 'Screw the Holmeses' operation. Tania Something. Greg never caught her last name and as time went on he was too embarrassed. They went out a couple of times, laughed and for the first time in a long time Greg actually felt attracted to someone and the feeling, it seemed, was mutual. So when they ended up back at hers, kissing on the sofa and tugging at each other's clothes, it wasn't really a surprise. She'd worked most of Greg's buttons open and was pushing his shirt back off his shoulders when she stopped.

'What's that?'

'Hmm?' Greg nuzzled against her hair.

'You're an alpha.'

'Yeah.'

'So why have you got a mark?'

Greg closed his eyes, realising he perhaps should have explained that before they got to the point they were.

'It's-'

'I think you should leave,' her voice was cold as she stepped away from him, 'I'm not into all that kinky shit.'

As Greg made his way out, still pulling his clothes back on, the door slammed behind him, and when he heard the lock shame rocked through him.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Possibly the last update until after Chistmas. But who knows?

Mycroft's mark burned and he rubbed it absent-mindedly as he walked across the tarmac to the waiting plane. It had been doing that more and more over the previous weeks and the pain was starting to become a distraction. He knew that meeting Gregory face to face before he left had been a bad idea. Being in such close proximity had triggered that old connection again, which was incredibly inconvenient when Mycroft was trying so hard to break it completely.

If Mycroft had been of a scientific or romantic nature he may have wondered at how a single action could create such a link between two people and maintain it for a long time, no matter how brief the actual bond had been. But Mycroft was practical, logical. Bonding was an inconvenience, a remnant of a time when it was considered acceptable to be 'owned' by someone else. Eventually, he thought, evolution would take care of it, but that would be too late for Mycroft Holmes and those like him who simply did not want it, and certainly did not want to retain any of that connection after parting ways.

What angered him was the notion that he was expected to stay with someone for the rest of his life simply because they got carried away in the heat of the moment and their instincts had taken over.

His parents had been most disappointed, even if they didn't voice much on the topic following Mycroft's rejection of Gregory. Although he was certain that, should they ever find out that Mycroft was still feeling the connection their short bond had created, they would be delighted. He made a note to ensure they never learned of that situation. Mycroft didn't think he could stand any more lectures on responsibility and loneliness and the benefits of mates.

Anthea didn't look up as he boarded, instead she continued tapping at her ever-present phone. Several rows behind her Sherlock was flopped dramatically across several seats, his fingers steepled under his chin as he stared at the ceiling. So, it was going to be one of _those_ flights. Marvellous.

Mycroft slid into his own seat and turned slightly to face away from the window. Not that he would admit it, but he was anxious to get back. The sooner he could get the terrorist situation out of Gregory's hands and into Sherlock's the better he would feel.

He'd resisted the urge to contact Gregory, trusting that Anthea would inform him should something go wrong. The fact that most of London was still in one piece was a comfort. Although how long it would remain that way upon Sherlock's arrival remained to be seen.

He had taken the files Anthea handed him, ignored the information on the terror alert, skipping straight to the information about John Watson. Anthea had flicked her boss a glance that assured him she had removed all of the information about Mary from the file, but it was laced with a warning that she would not be putting up with any of Sherlock's shit on the flight back.

Mycroft closed his eyes and leaned back. He could only hope they would avoid an incident at thirty thousand feet. He couldn't function without Anthea, and he didn't want to have to murder his brother to prevent her from handing in her resignation.

 

#

 

_Extirpation?_

 

_#_

 

Mycroft was fairly certain that Sherlock had stolen most of the contents of John's file and hidden the pages about his person, but he had neither the energy nor the inclination to do anything about it at that moment. His brother had not read the pages detailing John's mental state, his return to therapy, the brief period where his life was little more than whisky and painkillers, or the suicide detail Mycroft had discreetly attached to his little brother's abandoned mate. Instead he had spent fifteen minutes ranting about John's jumpers and reading habits and penchant for jam and obeying the law.

And that was before he even got started on the moustache.

 

#

 

_Not a jury in the land would convict you - G_


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg takes back control of his life and Anthea makes her feeling on the matter clear in her own special way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now edited slightly at the end.

John's hands were shaking and he kept looking over his shoulder, his forehead creased.

'You alright?'

Greg's voice seemed to startle John. Not a good sign. In fact, Greg thought, John's whole manner was so out of character that it was attracting attention even from people who didn't know him all that well. John was the calm one. Yeah, alright, he could be a bit shouty, but he wasn't ever so full of nervous energy, restless and moving around on the balls of his feet, practically trembling. It was like watching...like watching Sherlock.

'What?' John blinked, 'Yeah. No, I'm fine. Just feeling a bit...I think it's just nerves.' he lowered his voice, 'I'm going to ask Mary tonight.'

'Really? Tonight?' Greg asked, trying not to sound panicky, 'Are you sure? I mean, you haven't known each other all that long.'

'Long enough,' John took a deep breath and treated Greg to a rare smile.

He looked happy, Greg realised. There was still a trace of sadness there, and there probably always would be. But he really did look happy. He was giving smiles that were almost like the ones he used to give when he was running through the rain after Sherlock.

Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock who was on a plane at that moment. Sherlock who was on his way back.

Greg swore under his breath. The man really picked his moments.

'John,' Greg said softly, wanting to prepare John, but knowing that he couldn't, 'What about...Sherlock.'

John's face hardened and he looked away from Greg.

'He's not here.'

'John-'

'He left me, Greg,' John's voice hitched and he paused for a second before he carried on, 'He left me, and he made me watch him do it.'

And didn't Greg know what that felt like. Okay, so Mycroft hadn't killed himself in front of Greg, but he hadn't exactly tried to soften the blow when he did reject him. It made Greg so angry. Angry for himself and angry for John. But at least when that plane landed and the Holmes brothers returned, Greg was under no illusion that Mycroft intended coming back for him.

He didn't look down at John, fearful that his face would give away too much. He did, however, resolve to get as far away from all the drama and get as drunk as possible in an effort to forget that more than one person was going to have their life ripped apart that night.

 

#

 

Anthea's face was expressionless as she worked, the only indication she was angry was the slightly increased force with which she tapped the keys. As they began their descent she packed her belongings safely away and folded her hands neatly on her lap, every inch the attentive and professional assistant she was.

Mycroft cleared his throat.

'Anthea dear, when we land I wonder if you would be so good to as to go on ahead and allow me a few moments with my brother?'

Her smile was slight and her nod barely perceptible. She hadn't spoken a word since they took off, a sure indication that an 'incident' was looming and it would be preferable to remove her from Sherlock's orbit as soon as possible.

Anthea must have already predicted his request, because there were two cars waiting for them when they landed. Sherlock sneered, but it was all for show. He didn't say anything, but Mycroft could read his excitement and anxiety as clearly as if Sherlock had told him how he was feeling. Mycroft tightened the grip on his umbrella. Sherlock was his brother, and contrary to popular belief, he did care about his wellbeing, and he was worried about the effects that seeing John again would have. Especially when he learned of John's changed circumstances.

'Sherlock-' he began, but his brother was already bounding off towards the car, 'About Dr Watson-'

'John!' Sherlock's whole face lit up, his voice just an excited breath. He wrenched the door open and was already climbing inside when he shouted, 'You can take the next one.'

And that was how Mycroft found himself standing on the runway watching both of his cars disappear out of the airport.

 

#

 

Greg didn't stop as he walked from his car to Mycroft's office. He knew Mycroft would go straight there as soon as he got back because God forbid the man take some time to relax and unwind after what must have been a difficult trip. It meant a slightly longer journey through London for Greg, but it also meant that he didn't have to go to the house, which was just too difficult. He didn't pause as he walked up the street, knowing that if he took even a second to gather his thoughts that some of his resolve would crumble.

He must have been expected because he was waved through by security and reception. Taking the stairs simply so he could keep moving, Greg clutch the files to his side and forced himself to ignore the blinking lights of the security camera trained on him.

When he arrived at Mycroft's office there was no sign of Anthea, so he crossed the foyer and walked straight into the office without pausing to knock.

'Gregory,' Mycroft was behind his desk, pen in hand and a tea tray beside him.

'You can have these back,' Greg threw the files onto the desk.

'I trust you were discreet.'

'No, I thought I would take out a billboard,' Gregory snapped more sarcastically than he intended.

'And there were no unfortunate incidents while I was away?'

'Do you see a cloud of smoke hanging over us?'

'Sherlock is back the country,' Mycrof tried a weak smile, 'So perhaps give it a few hours.'

He could see that Mycroft was trying very hard to engage with him, but Greg just couldn't do it. Not this night when he knew what was happening elsewhere.

'Well, now that he's back you won't be needing me any more.'

'I appreciate your-'

'Don't bother.'

The stared at each other until Mycroft glanced down at the files and then back up at Gregory.

'And did you find out anything-'

'That Moran bloke is shifty as fuck. My money's on Parliament. You should get a good view from here.'

'Moran?' Mycoft frowned, but he looked strangely pleased and was already reaching to pick up the papers.

'I'd rather you didn't involve me in your business again,' as he spoke he realised how like Mycroft he sounded when he used those clipped and formal tones and he almost smiled, at least he'd learned something useful from the man. Well, something useful he could use on the DSI. He strongly suspected his boss wouldn't appreciate some of the _other_ things he'd learned from Mycroft, 'I'd prefer not to be put in that situation again.'

Mycroft's smile disappeared at Greg's words and his professional mask started to slide back into place, which was useless because it had never worked with Greg any way, a fact that Mycroft knew. 'Gregory-'

'I'm not your lap dog, Mr Holmes.'

He slammed the door hard behind him, teeth gritted against the sudden stab of pain. He was back on the street before he realised that not all of the pain he was feeling was his.

 

#

 

Mycroft did not move for almost a full hour after Gregory left. He feared that if he even tried to stand he would vomit, such was the nausea coursing through him. When it was finally dark outside, Mycroft pulled himself slowly to his feet, using the edge of his desk for support. He put his suit jacket on and straightened his tie automatically, hands working of their own accord. When he left his office Anthea was back behind her desk, face serene as she worked at her computer, the floor carpeted with sheaves of paper and empty files which looked very much like they had been thrown in the air in anger.

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I tried to keep the last scen in this brief - I didn't want to include it, but it had to be done.

There were a lot of places Greg could get a drink in London. Hell, some of the bars would even serve him for free if he really pushed his luck. Publicans, he'd found, were brilliant at remembering faces and even better when it came to police officers who'd helped out. Greg was aware that some of the Yard occasionally took advantage of that, but to date Greg never had. He tended to avoid pubs he'd worked a scene at, and that night he just needed to get away. Which is why he found himself holed up in a tiny pub in Elephant and Castle, many expensive miles from home, two glasses of scotch past his tolerance point.

A shadow flitted across the table and another glass was set in front of him. He looked up to nod a thanks and was met with a smile and a tumble of brown hair as a figure slid onto the seat opposite him.

'You really need to stop stalking me,' Greg said, lifting the glass.

The brunette facing him said nothing, she just lifted her own and downed it in one.

Greg smirked, 'Another?'

She didn't speak, just pushed the empty wine glass towards him. Greg made to stand, but already there was a barman at his side, tray in hand. He sat back down as a large measure of scotch and a bottle of red wine was set on the table between them.

For the next hour they sat in silence as Greg got steadily more drunk and Anthea pretended to be interested in the game being broadcast on the massive screen. Her blackberry didn't make an appearance the whole time she was sitting across from Greg.

She met his gaze just once, as she was lifting her own glass. Her carefully polished persona didn't give anything away and Greg wished he could do that too.

 

#

 

John was nervous and he didn't know why. He'd bonded before. He knew there was nothing to be afraid of. But then, it had been different before. He hadn't even thought about it until Sherlock just announced it, so there was no build up, no planning. It had just felt right.

 _This_ felt right too, John told himself, smoothing his tie and sitting up a little straighter, trying to compose himself. There was something about the room that felt too familiar, too close, despite having never been there before. Maybe it was the quiet elegance of the restaurant, or the music playing softly just on the very edge of hearing, or just the scent of expensive cologne that caused the quivering in his chest. It both soothed and excited him.

A waiter appeared at his side to take his order and John suddenly realised the moment was real as his excitement peaked and his hands trembled so much he could barely hold the wine list steady enough to read it. As the waiter reached out to highlight a suggestion, John felt a sudden sense of calmness. It only lasted a second though, and as the waiter moved away again, John's heart rate sped up once more and he drained his wine glass in a vain attempt to calm his nerves.

Even as Mary slid into the chair opposite him, John struggled to control his breathing.

'Now then, what did you want to ask me?' she smiled her knowing smile.

 

#

 

'Anthea,' Greg spoke eventually, 'Does Mycroft know you're here?'

She fixed her perfectly made up eyes on him, a sly smile creeping across her face. Greg had no idea whether that was a yes or a no, and for some reason discovered that he didn't really want to know.

'What's going to happen to Sherlock?'

The smile disappeared and Anthea reached for her glass, 'What happened to you.'

'No,' Greg shook his head, 'This is Sherlock we're talking about. He's not just going to sit at home and cry.,' he paused, 'Myc said- Mycroft said he thought Sherlock might actually kill himself this time.'

'A security detail has already been assigned to Sherlock.'

'Who?' Greg asked, 'Because Mycroft isn't going to trust just anyone to look after his brother, and you're sitting here. So, who is watching Sherlock.'

'Mycroft.'

Greg rocked backwards in his seat and gave a sharp laugh, that was not what he was expecting.

'He knows he's not exactly inconspicuous, right? Sherlock will see him coming from five miles away.'

Anthea took a sip of her wine, 'I don't believe Mr Holmes intends to be inconspicuous.'

'Christ,' Greg reached for the bottle to top up their glasses, 'Sherlock is going to just love that.'

 

#

 

Sherlock moved quickly, John the only object in his focus, his sudden closeness confusing. After two years so far away from his mate, the proximity was overwhelming, John's scent a heady mix that took the sharp edge from Sherlock's frantic mind and restored the element of calmness that had eluded him since he went on the run.

Moving back towards John, his stride long and eager, his face breaking into a smile without his realising, Sherlock only looked at John, breathing deeply, allowing John's presence to once more ground him, revelling in the peace he brought just by being there.

John.

John Watson who had walked unexpectedly into his lab four years ago, who had been impressed with his mind, but not frightened of it like others were. John who had willingly followed him, questioned him, made him answer for his actions. John who had taken care of him, who had made sure he ate and slept. John who refused to let him destroy himself, who searched through his possessions for drugs but who never confronted him about it. John, the only person Sherlock let into his life wholly and completely.

John Watson. His John. His mate.

Gliding to the table, Sherlock swept the bottle in front of John with a flourish and a smile.

'Sir, I think you’ll find this vintage exceptionally to your liking,' he said in a ridiculous French accent that he hoped would make John smile, 'It ’as all the qualities of the old, with some of the colour of the new.'

John blinked hard, still facing Mary, but his eyes slightly glazed over, his face settling into a hard expression as he became aware that something was different. Sherlock's own body was now reacting to his mates adrenaline and he could feel the tingle down John's spine as it ran along his own. Sherlock's whole world shrank down to just John and the connection between them. The connection that Sherlock had missed for so long, and that John was struggling to make sense of. His confusion was almost painful for Sherlock, and he could feel John questioning his own senses. There was no way they could be telling him what they were. It just didn't make sense. It couldn't.

'No, sorry,' he said absently, still trying to process what his senses were trying to tell him, 'Not now, please.'

With a thrill of expectation Sherlock continued, 'Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers suddenly one is aware of staring into ze face of an old friend,' He let the accent drop halfway through the sentence as he pulled the glasses off with a flourish and waited for John's reaction.

But John was still lost in his own thoughts and he snapped angrily, 'No, look, seriously ...could you just …?'

John jolted back, the annoyance on his face giving way to shock and hurt that ripped across Sherlock's own chest causing him to doubt himself for the first time.

'Interesting thing, a tuxedo,' Sherlock faltered slightly as he felt John shutting down, shutting him out, as John pushed him away, pulling back into himself, 'Lends distinction to friends, and anonymity to waiters.'

And then with a white hot shock Sherlock was hit with the full force of John's feelings. Two years worth of betrayal and pain and lies hit him full force as John ducked his head, bitter tears filling his eyes. Then he was trying to get to his feet, stumbling as he tried to regain control of his body.

Focused on John, Sherlock was only vaguley aware of the woman across the table leaning forward, 'John?'

Unable to stop himself, and unable to bear the physical pain of his mate, Sherlock reached forward for John. As he did, John looked up at him, locking eyes with him, and Sherlock hated himself for everything he saw there.

'John, what is it? What?'

At the sound of the woman's voice John gave off a wave of anger and shame that caused Sherlock to frown as he tried to interpret it. Aware that the woman was still looking at him, and not wanting to have this conversation in front of her, Sherlock spoke again, his voice uncharacteristically awkward.

'Well, short version,' he began and as John raised his eyes to look at him again his heart broke completely, and he struggled to finish the sentence, 'Not Dead.'

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

Mycroft was getting worried. And angry.

Sherlock and John had left the restaurant for God knows where, Sherlock was good at avoiding detection, the last two years had been testament to that particular skill, he had no idea where Gregory was, and Anthea had disabled the security feed to his computer before she too had disappeared. He'd tried her phone but it was off.

For the first time in his life Mycroft Holmes had no idea what was going on to anyone he cared about. Where they were or even if they were safe. At another time he may have employed the services of another of his agents, but now the pool of those he could trust with certainty had dwindled to a tiny few. And all of them were out of reach at that moment.

In desperation he did something he promised he would never do again. He called Gregory.

 

#

 

'Hmph, would you look at that?' Greg held up his phone so Anthea could see who was calling him.

Her only response was a slight tilt of her head as she raised her glass again.

'Should I answer it?'

She shrugged.

Greg hesitated, then answered.

'Lestrade.'

There was a pause on the other end of the line and Greg almost hung up again.

'Gregory?'

He would never admit to anyone how hard Mycroft's hesitant question hit him, and he struggled for a moment to regain his own composure before responding.

'What do you want?'

'Where are you?' Mycroft's voice was unbearably uncertain.

'None of your business, Mycroft.'

'Gregory-'

'What do you want?'

'I...I was just checking that you were okay.'

'We're fine.'

There was a small pause and although Greg was all the way across the city, he could still feel Mycroft tense.

'We?'

'If there's nothing you want then I'm gonna go.'

'I...'

'Good night, Mr Holmes.

Greg hung up.

Anthea took a deep breath, 'That was harsh.'

 

#

 

Mycroft stared at the phone in his hand. Gregory had said 'we' which could mean any number of things. Mycroft knew he shouldn't care where Gregory was or who he was with. But no matter how much he wanted to stop himself, he just couldn't.

He sighed and tried calling Anthea again.

 

#

 

Greg pointed at Anthea with his phone, 'Your boss is an arse.'

'Yes' she smiled.

'How do you put up with him?'

'How do you?' she shot back playfully.

Greg stopped himself before he could say anything stupid about feelings, but Anthea would have already read everything in his face.

'I think I'm too drunk for this conversation,' he said instead.

'Yes.'

She stood and lifted her coat, indicating that he should come too.

'I'll drop you back to your flat,' she said.

'Only if you promise not to try and seduce me on the way,' Greg laughed.

Rolling her eyes Anthea made her way to the door, 'I'll do my best.'

Anthea was surprisingly easy and undemanding company when she wasn't working. She wasn't big on conversation, but the silence wasn't awkward. They stood companionably side by side as Anthea called for the car. She frowned at her blackberry when she turned it back on and Greg glanced over at her.

'How many times did he call you?'

'Eleven.'

'Hmm. So, that means he likes you eleven times more than he likes me.'

Anthea shot him a warning look out of the corner of her eye, but there was no real disapproval in it.

At that moment the car pulled up and Anthea waited for Greg to open the door for her. The car journey back to Greg's flat was uneventful and silent, and Greg watched out the darkened windows as they were driven through London. Instead of pulling up outside his flat, where the large black car might attract the wrong sort of attention, the driver negotiated his way into the basement car park, on of the few perks that made living in the modern shoebox of a flat bearable.

'Thanks Anthea,' Greg paused with the door half open and glanced back at her.

She smiled that amazing smile of hers, 'Goodnight Detective Inspector.'

He watched the car pull away back out onto the street and then he turned for the stairs, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes.

'Those things will kill you.'

Greg stopped.

He'd known. He'd known for such a long time that he should have been ready. He'd even know it was today. But no amount of time or warning could have prepared him for hearing that voice. The voice of a man he believed he'd killed.

'Oh, you bastard!'

 


	21. Chapter 21

Greg had been planning on avoiding John for a couple of days to give him space to think and talk to Sherlock. But when Sherlock had arrived outside Greg's flat, Greg knew that John was going to need a friend to talk to. So on his lunch break he text John asking if he wanted to go for a pint. John took nearly three hours to respond, and Greg was worried to the point of calling him, but just before he did John finally responded with a yes.

They met at their usual pub, Greg arrived first and was halfway through his first pint when John staggered in, looking lost and half dazed. Greg stood up and guided John into the booth he'd been seated in.

'You alright, mate?'

John blinked at him, unsure how to answer. Eventually he said, 'Sherlock.'

Greg nodded in understanding, 'I know.'

'He's alive.'

'I know. He came to see me after you left.'

Greg didn't tell him that he'd known about Sherlock for a long time. He hoped that was a conversation that he would never have with John. The man had already been betrayed enough by people he cared about.

'How are you taking it?' Greg asked.

'How do you think I'm taking it?'

They lapsed into silence for a long time, and Greg took the chance to study his friend. He'd only seen John like this once before, when Sherlock had jumped off the roof and they thought that John might follow him. John wore the same look now. Like he couldn't believe the betrayal. Just when he was finally getting his life back together, along comes Sherlock Holmes like a bloody tornado and throws everything into chaos again.

'What did Mycroft have to say for himself?' John asked.

'No idea. I haven't spoken to him.'

'I thought you'd have been over there giving him hell for keeping it from everyone.'

'I was out getting pissed with Anthea.'

John just stared, 'And how was that?'

Greg shrugged and lifted his pint, 'It was alright.'

Another silence, and the questions hung in the air between them, neither one really wanting to deal with them. But eventually Greg couldn't put it off any more.

'How do you feel?'

John looked lost, 'I have no idea. I'm angry. I am so...angry. But at the same time it's so bloody typically Sherlock, and I think part of me always thought....and I'm relieved and...I don't know. I just don't know.'

'And Mary?'

'Mary,' John repeated sadly, 'She kept asking if I was going to see him again, and I don't know what to say to her.'

'You are going to see him again though, aren't you.' It wasn't a question.

'He's my mate,' John said quietly, 'No matter what he's done that fact doesn't change. I love him.'

'But?'

'I love Mary too.'

'She's not your mate.'

'She also never faked her own death in front of me.'

'Point taken.'

'You'll have to decide John. You can't have them both.'

'I don't know if I can forgive him.'

 

#

 

'It's not like I jumped off the roof for fun,' Sherlock protested.

'No offence, Sherlock,' Greg stamped out his cigarette, 'You've done stranger things in the name of entertainment.'

For a brief second Sherlock looked genuinely offended, 'Not to John!'

'Sherlock, you made him _watch!'_

 _'_ I SENT HIM AWAY SO HE WOULDN'T HAVE TO SEE!'

Greg rocked backwards at Sherlock's roar.

'You what?' he asked slowly.

Sherlock swirled away, eyes wild, 'I sent him away, back to Baker Street. He thought Mrs Hudson had been shot. He wasn't supposed to be there.'

'But-'

'Oh, I had a contingency plan,' Sherlock said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, 'Of course I did. I always have a back up plan where John is concerned.'

'Mycroft said that jumping off the roof was your back up plan.'

Sherlock shifted, 'Yes, well.'

'You could have told him. Let him know in some way.'

'So could you,' Sherlock responded slyly.

'Seriously? You're going to try and pin this on me? He's your bloody mate.'

But even as he said it, Greg wasn't sure if that was even true any more.

 

#

 

Anthea had quietly re-endabled the security feed to Mycroft's computer, and Mycroft watched John Watson thoughtfully from the safety of his office. The man's reaction worried him. More for Sherlock than for John's own welfare. John had initially lashed out at Sherlock, two years of anger and hurt bursting out of him at once. But then he had withdrawn back into himself, his quiet composure slipping back into place, and then some. It was as if time had turned back two years, although this was a fresh betrayal, and the pain of it was clear in every movement John made.

He wasn't speaking to Sherlock, refusing to see him or take his calls. Mycroft knew he had spoken briefly with Gregory, but he had not been privvy to the details of that conversation. He also knew that Anthea too had met with Gregory, and he assumed she was the other half of the 'we' Gregory had mentioned. Mycroft wasn't sure if he was relieved or worried. Gregory and Anthea were closer than they would appear at times, and he did not like the idea of them having private meetings.

He watched as John sat on his lunch break, sandwiches untouched on the desk in front of him, staring into space, his face unreadable.

Perhaps it would be different for him if there was no one else involved, and Mycroft felt a flash of anger. He had asked Gregory months ago to break up John's relationship with that woman. But Gregory had thought he knew better. Had spoken about happiness and moving on as if he had any idea what that meant.

Mycroft wondered if he should have told John from the offset what was happening. But Sherlock had been adamant when he contacted Mycroft that John was not to know. That his life would have been in danger. That John would do something stupid like try to look for him or contact him. And given the doctor's history of running after his brother into whatever situation, no matter how dangerous, Mycroft was inclined to agree.

Perhaps it was time to visit his brother.

 

#

 

'Who is that woman?' Sherlock demanded as he strode along lightly ahead of Greg, stopping suddenly and turning to face the older man, screwing his face up in disgust, 'And why does she smell like John?'

'Sherlock,' Greg began, licking his lips nervously, 'I think you need to talk to John about-'

'Oh John!' Sherlock rolled his eyes, 'Who is she Lestrade?'

Greg paused, knowing it really wasn't his place to answer that question.

'She's John's girlfriend.'

Sherlock stared at him, 'Girlfriend? But we're mates. We bonded.'

'He thought you were dead for the last two years,' Greg said gently, 'He couldn't pine forever.'

'But he should have known I would come back for him.'

Sometimes, Greg thought, for a genius Sherlock could be incredibly thick.

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thar be angst ahead.

When it came to subtle acts of cruel revenge, Anthea had could be very vindictive, but Mycroft had to give her points for her creativity. After being forced by Mycroft to endure the disastrous plane trip the day before, where Sherlock had spent the time he wasn't brooding, amusing himself by kicking the back of Anthea's seat and sighing dramatically every few seconds, Anthea had been less than impressed. Mycroft discovered exactly how angry she was when he opened his briefing folder during a breakfast meeting with the Prime Minister to find that the agenda had been replaced by a picture of a badly drawn stegosaurus.

After that his day just seemed to get worse and worse. The rest of his morning was spent watching Sherlock, just in case his brother decided to do something stupid. And given Sherlock's history, there was a wide variety of stupid things to chose from.

Sherlock had seemed reasonably upbeat, but was still in his pyjamas and robe when Mycroft arrived. The information on the terror strike was still laying on the table, and Mycroft was certain that his brother had barely given it a second glance. He seemed more interested in the game of Operation they were playing, having exhausted chess and Cluedo in the first half hour.

Setting his piece down on the table, Sherlock sat back, 'Your move.'

Mycroft frowned at the game, annoyed that they were playing when there were other matters to attend to. But, a little voice in his head that sounded painfully like Gregory's, Sherlock was his brother and he needed him. Whether he would admit to it or not. So, Mycroft would play his games with him if that's what it took to keep his mind occupied.  
'I’ve given the Prime Minister my personal assurance you’re on the case.'  
'I _am_ on the case. We’re _both_ on the case. Look at us right now.'

As Mycroft pulled his tweezers back to remove the piece he set off the buzzer.

'Oh, bugger!'

He threw down the tweezers as Sherlock smiled, 'Oopsie!'

Sherlock glanced down at the piece Mycroft had been removing and then leaned back in his seat looking smug, considering his brother carefully, 'Can’t handle a broken heart? How _very_ telling.'

 

#

 

Sherlock considered his older brother carefully. It wasn't hard to deduce the man at all. Two years and he was still fighting against his bond with Gregory. That was interesting. He knew that his brother had little contact with the man, as was evident when Greg's name came up. Mycroft would never admit to it, but he gave a little start when there was mention of his mate. He could also tell that they'd had a fight recently, and that Greg had been the one to instigate. So Greg was standing up to Mycroft more, that was a good sign. For Greg, at least.

He wondered if he and John would be like that in years to come. Keeping each other at arms length, snapping at each other, denying their feelings but still unable to walk away from each other completely.

Seeing Mycroft's unhappiness, however deep Mycroft was trying to hide it, Sherlock's resolve strengthened. He wasn't going to let John push him away.

 

#

 

Greg hadn't seen Mycroft since Sherlock's return and had no real desire to see him just yet. But that phone call Mycroft made the night he came back with Sherlock was still playing on Greg's mind. He couldn't forget how sad and small Mycroft had sounded, and that worried him, playing on his conscience, although why he wasn't entirely certain. He didn't owe Mycroft anything. Mycroft's Serifwellbeing was not, as Mycroft had repeatedly made clear, his problem. Even so, Greg was uneasy enough to pick up the phone.

 

#

 

_Mycroft? - G_

 

_#_

 

Anthea glanced through the open door into Mycroft's office, where the man himself was sitting with his hands under his chin, gaze focused somewhere in the middle distance.

 

#

_Omphaloskepsis_

#  _#_

 

_State of mind? G_

 

_#_

_tergiversationary_

 

_#_

_Nothing new then. G_

_#_

'Sir?' Sally Donovan stuck her head around the office door as Greg was looking up the meaning of Anthea's latest texts. He might never reach the same standard as Sherlock or Mycroft, but he was learning something new every day.

'Sally. Tea?'

'Er, no. Thanks. I'm not staying, I just wanted to...look, don't take this the wrong way or anything. We just...I...we...well, we thought that maybe you should start to look at other options. It's been two years and-'

'I thought we agreed that we weren't going down that road again.'

'I know,' Sally nodded. Greg had made her swear on her favourite handbag that she wouldn't try setting him up on any more dates with her friends. No matter how amazing they were.

'So what's the big idea this time?'

Sally shifted from foot to foot and wouldn't quite meet his gaze.

'Sal?'

'There's just other things you can try. You know?'

'Therapy?'

Greg had looked into therapy at the start on John's suggestion. But on examination of the facts it was clear that the success rate was so low it wasn't worth the financial outlay.

'Maybe,' Donovan stepped forward and handed him a bundle of leaflets, 'We thought you might want to have a look at some of the options. If you decide to go down that route then Anderson knows...well, he knows someone.'

She ducked her head and was out the door before Greg could say anything. Frowning, he looked down at the leaflets she had given him. He smiled as he recognised some of them. Little did Sally know that he had the same ones in the bottom drawer of his desk. They were standard issue when a bond was broken. Some of them he even had two copies of.

Greg thought he must be the most pathetic man in London sometimes.

One by one he looked at the leaflets and chucked them in the bin, until halfway down the pile there was one that made his blood run cold.

 

#

 

'Dr Watson,' the receptionist called through to John's office, 'There's a Detective Inspector Lestrade here to see you. He doesn't have an appointment.'

'It's okay, Karen, send him in please.'

A few seconds later Greg came through the door, looking agitated.

'Everything okay?' John looked up at him.

'I don't know.'

John's face fell, 'Sherl-'

'No,' Greg cut in quickly, 'He's fine.' He rubbed the back of his neck, 'It's something else.'

'Oh?'

'It's a bit...personal.'

'Okay. Well, why don't you sit down and we'll talk about it,' John sat up straighter, professionalism kicking in above his compassion for his friend.

Greg handed him a folded leaflet, 'Sally suggested this and I wanted to know what you thought. Being a doctor, and having...well, you know.'

John unfolded the leaflet and looked down at the glossy page, and he did know.

'Chemical treatment?' he frowned, 'That's...um. Well, it's a big decision. It plays havoc with your hormones, especially at the beginning, and it's expensive with no guarantee it will work.'

Greg nodded, all of that had been in the leaflet.

'And it's risky. Very risky. Not as bad as it used to be, but there are still around one in a hundred deaths for those people on it. And, and I don't mean this in the wrong way, but the older you are then the higher the risk,' John leaned towards Greg, 'For someone your age you're looking at a maybe one death per forty people.'

Greg bit his lip, weighing up those odds in his head.

'Does it work though?'

'For most people,' John admitted.

'And it'll take it away?'

John almost couldn't bear the way Greg looked right then, his soft brown eyes creased with hurt, his hands clenched on his knees as if to steady them. He reached out and put his hand on Greg's arm.

'Is it really that bad?'

Greg let out a shuddery breath.

'Yes.'

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg decides on a drastic course of action. Much angst ensues. I make no apologies.

Greg's coffee table was covered in papers. Leaflets, printed articles and pages from journals that John had sent him home with.

It wasn't a course of action he had actually considered before, and for a few brief hours it had looked like a viable option. But now, actually looking at the information and the figures, Greg wasn't entirely sure it was an option at all. The treatment didn't fall under the NHS, and his police medical insurance wouldn't cover it. The cost alone was staggering, amounting to almost half of Greg's annual salary, and he'd be on it for the rest of his life.

'You need to consider that,' John had pointed out at great length, 'It's designed as a permanent course of treatment. It'll artificially break the bond, but you'll never be able to bond with someone else while you are on on it, and if you come off the treatment then there is a 70% chance that your original bond will still be there.'

'For how long?'

John shrugged, 'Studies have only gone up to ten years.'

'So it could still be there, underneath it all after a decade.'

'Yeah.'

'And I wouldn't be able to -'

John shook his head.

A thought occurred to Greg, 'Is that why you didn't have it?'

There was a pause while John tried to frame his answer, eventually he just slumped back in his chair a little more, 'I didn't want to be alone forever. And...and while there was no guarantee that I might meet someone else, if I'd been on the chemical treatment then I would have definitely been alone.'

'So you took the pain and the chance of another mate one day?'

John nodded, 'Stupid?'

'No.'

'You could meet someone else,' John said a little too quickly.

'John, I've been through this twice. I'm never doing it again.'

'Okay,' John nodded and turned to his computer, 'I can give you some information to take home and read. But just...just think it through, okay.'

Greg took the bundle of papers John gave him and stood to leave, mumbling his thanks, head full of information.

'Look,' John said quietly, 'I know it's none of my business, but if you do decide to go down this route, if you pass the medical, then how are you going to afford it?'

'I'll work something out.' Greg had assured him.

 

#

 

John hadn't been entirely truthful with Greg. He _had_ considered the treatment at great length. Had even gone so far as to have a medical to determine if he was a viable candidate, and unlike Greg, his private medical insurance _would_ cover it. Perks of the job.

He'd been honest when he said that he'd wanted the chance of a mate in the future, but what he hadn't told Greg was that he wanted the pain. He needed it to remind him that, no matter how brief, it had all been real.

 

#

 

Greg glanced at his watch. It was just gone four in the afternoon.

 

_Mycroft busy? G_

 

_#_

 

_Adoxography._

 

#

 

_20 minutes. G_

 

_#_

 

_Inform?_

 

_#_

 

_No. G_

_#_

 

Mycroft looked up at the sound of Anthea's mobile, and was just in time to catch the slight frown that crossed her face. The she was on her feet, stacking papers and making her way into his office.

'These need signed by tomorrow morning, sir.'

'Thank you, Anthea. Is...is everything alright. You look troubled.'

'Fine, sir,' and as if to prove her point she smiled brightly at him and retreated back to her own desk, closing the connecting door behind her.

Half an hour later, as Mycroft was immersed in plans for expansion of the city's rapid transport system, Anthea knocked his door and let herself in without waiting for a reply.

'Detective Inspector Lestrade to see you, sir.'

Mycroft suddenly felt cold, and for a second thought he had heard Anthea incorrectly, but no, there was Greg's scent in the air, so sharp and clear and close that Mycroft wondered how he hadn't noticed it until that second.

'Shall I show him in, sir?'

'Y-yes. Yes, thank you.' Mycroft managed. When Anthea turned to retrieve Gregory, Mycroft automatically smoothed his jacket and tie, sitting up straighter in his seat and preparing himself to face the other man.

'Gregory,' he stood as Greg walked in, and started to hold out his hand before he realised what he was doing and abruptly sat back down again.

Gregory cocked an eyebrow at him and dropped down into the opposite seat without waiting to be invited.

'What can I do for you? I trust all is well?'

'Yeah,' Greg growled, clearly on edge in Mycroft's presence.

There was still that underlying anger that had been present during their last meeting, and it gave Mycroft pause.

Before he could speak again Gregory reached into his pocket and took out some papers which he pushed across the desk to Mycroft.

'I want you to pay for it,' he said abruptly, not meeting Mycroft's eye.

Confused and curious Mycroft picked up the papers and unfolded them. His eyes scanned down the first page and his heart stuttered.

'Gregory-'

'I can't-can't.' Greg refused to lift his head, 'I can't keep feeling like this.'

'And you want me to pay for this treatment?'

'You did this to me. And I can't fix it by myself. And I can't afford...'

Gregory trailed off and all of the unspoken words of the last two years hung between them.

Mycroft stood up, hands shaking, 'I think we both need a drink.'

'I don't want a drink.'

Mycroft poured him one anyway, setting it down in front of him with an unsteady hand, something which did not escape Gregory's notice and he followed Mycroft's movements until the man sat back down in his chair and raised his own glass to his lips.

'This is an extreme course of action,' Mycroft began.

'I've already had the lecture from my doctor,' Greg cut him off.

'And you've considered all the alt-'

'Mycroft I wouldn't be here if I hadn't.'

Mycroft was stalling and he didn't know why. But part of him, the part that was still bonded to Gregory, didn't want the conversation to end, didn't want the other man to leave. But then, Mycroft reasoned, wasn't this what he had wanted? To break the bond they had accidentally made.

As if Gregory could read his mind, the other man said, 'This is what you wanted.'

Mycroft nodded dumbly, 'I agree that it's a suitable course of action, and it's one I should have suggested, offered, when the incident occurred.'

He wasn't looking at Greg, but he could _feel_ the man flinch at the word 'incident' and he hated himself just a little. But he had started and so he carried on.

'To allow ourselves to be blind sided by _biology_ was a weak mistake and one that I have been trying to rectify ever since. It's-'

'Do you actually hear the shit that comes out of your mouth sometimes?' Greg slammed his glass down on the table and stood up, leaning over Mycroft, 'You think you can just control the world, don't you? Plan everything so it fits into one of your black and white boxes. Well here's something you clearly haven't considered, I cared about you before we bonded! I had feelings for you. It was already there. And I think you had feelings for me too, because if you didn't then it wouldn't have all been so instinctive, it wouldn't have happened, would it? And that scares the shit out of you, Mycroft, because you can't explain it. Because it's not fucking _biology!'_

Gregory was panting now, and his eyes were wet with unshed tears and that tore at Mycroft's heart. He instinctively reached for the other man, and when his hand closed on Greg's arm it seemed to set off a chain reaction, and Gregory was crying openly.

'You did this,' he repeated, 'You left me on my own to deal with it, and I can't do it any more. I just can't.'

'Gregory,' Mycroft stood and moved around the desk so he was face to face with the other man.

Greg took a shuddering breath and dropped his head, 'Myc-'

And that was all it took for Mycroft to pull him in close, wrapping his long arms around him. They stood like that for a long time, face buried in each other's neck, taking comfort in the scent of the other and letting it soothe some of the pain that coursed between them.

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And a bonus update chapter because some of you actually complained that the ending to the last one was too nice. :)

Mycroft's hands ran up and down his back, and for Greg it was the most natural thing in the world to just rest his head against Mycroft's shoulder, breathing in the scent of the other man and pressing his lips lightly against his neck. When they trailed across the mark he had left there, Greg felt Mycroft shudder against him, and his hold on Greg tightened, fingers clawing against the fabric of Greg's coat. And then those elegant hands were pulling the coat away completely and Mycroft turned his head just enough that he could brush his cheek against Greg's, his breath warm against Greg's face. He closed his eyes and moved back to find Greg's mouth, his lips brushing against them lightly.

And that was all it took for Greg to return the action, deepening the kiss and pulling Mycroft closer to him, pressing himself against the other man, wanting to feel as much of him as possible. He tugged Mycroft's shirt out of his trousers and slid his hands underneath it, running them over the warm, smooth skin of his sides and back, gasping as Mycroft moved his attention to Greg's neck, trailing kisses down his throat and across the mark at the base.

'No,' Abruptly Mycroft stepped back, his face flushed and his eyes wide with horror.

Greg felt his heart harden, he'd seen that look before. But this time he wasn't going to beg, he wasn't going to fight for it. He just shook his head sadly.

'Every time, Myc.'

'Gregory-' Mycroft stepped forward, reaching out.

'No,' Greg backed away from him, 'Don't touch me.' he ran a hand through his hair, 'You keep doing this and I can't take it any more. You let me in and then you push me away. Every time.'

He was backing away from Mycroft towards the door, his hands held in front of him as if to keep Mycroft away. He could feel Mycroft's distress, but he just couldn't let himself face it right now.

'Gregory, please. I didn't-'

Mycroft's voice followed Greg as he practically ran past Anthea's desk and down the stairs to the street.

 

#

 

Someone was shouting downstairs, and then there were footsteps running up to the flat. Footsteps Sherlock didn't recognise. He stepped out onto the landing to see Mary, her face creased.

'Mary?' he tried to keep the distate out of his voice at the way John's scent mingled with hers, 'What’s wrong?'

She took her phone from her pocket and stood close to Sherlock, holding it out so he could see. Sherlock subsconsiously held his breath, the scent too strong and making him feel sick.

'Someone sent me this. At first I thought it was just a Bible thing, you know, spam, but it’s not. It’s a skip-code.'

Something sparked in Sherlock's brain, a warning that he couldn't quite pinpoint, but his curiosity forced him to turn his attention to the phone she was holding out. She wouldn't have come to him if it wasn't important. If it wasn't about...John.

 

 _Save souls now!_  
John or James Watson?  
  
He frowned, counting the words in his head, 'First word, then every third. Save ... John ... Watson.'

His body went cold, but Mary was already pulling up the next text.

  
 _Saint or Sinner?  
James or John?  
The more is Less?  
_  
And again Sherlock counted the words to form the message.   
  
_Saint James The Less_  
  
The chips he had been eating before her arrival dropped to the floor and he was already running down the stairs past Mary, 'Now!'  
MARY followed after him, struggling slightly, unused to the steepness of the stairs, 'Where are we going?'  
'St James the Less. It’s a church.'

A church where John was.

 

#

Greg didn't even know how he got home. He just remembered opening the door to the flat, staggering across the floor to his bedroom and collapsing onto the bed where two years worth of exhaustion overwhelmed him and he fell into a dark sleep from which part of him hoped he wouldn't wake from

 

#

 

They were almost at the church when they had to negotiate a crowd gathering for a bonfire party when Mary's phone beeped again. She help the message out for Sherlock to see.

 

_What a shame_ _  
_ _Mr Holmes._ _  
_ _John is quite a Guy!_ __  


_'_ What does it mean?'

Sherlock didn't know, but he could feel John close by.

Beside them there was a cheer and Sherlock whipped his head around to see the bonfire catch light, and a cold shiver ran down his spine.

'Oh my God.'

It started with one scream of a single child, and then suddenly there was chaos. Sherlock made his way towards the sound, feeling John closer every second, his mate's distress coursing through him, driving him forward, unable to see John, but _feeling_ where he was and navigating by that instinct alone.

And then he could hear John yelling for help and his chest tightened. He pushed through the crowd, pushing others out of the way with a strength he didn't know he possessed, driven purely by the need to save John.

'Move! Move, move! Move! Move!'

He didn't stop as he reached the bonfire, dropping down to look through the flames, feeling John within reach.

'John!' he roared, and was vaguely aware of Mary behind him, shouting something, but his focus was on the man trapped in the fire.  
'Help!'

With no thought for his own safety, only that of his John, Sherlock reached into the fire, pulling wood and branches aside until he was able to grab John and haul him out, laying him on the wet grass.

Sherlock paused then. It was the first time he had seen John since the night he came back, and he was shocked and frightened by the dazed look on John's face and by how close he had come to losing him. He leaned over his mate and gently touched his face.

'John? John!'

Mary was crying behind him, her presence setting him on edge, and Sherlock wished she would just _go away._ He wanted to shout at her, to send her away like he had sent all of the others away before John had finally seen sense and claimed him for his own.

Instead he leaned closer to John and spoke softly, 'Hey John.'  
  


#

 

John was aware of a cool hand on his face and a soft voice saying his name. He struggled to open his eyes, to focus. The voice. He followed the voice, feeling safe and soothed by it.

There were other people shouting, someone was crying, but over all of it he _felt_ the voice, and when he opened his eyes the only thing he could focus on were the impossible aqua eyes that were more familiar to him than his own. He felt his fear ease as the hand stroked his face again.

'Hey, John,' Sherlock said softly.

 

#

 

Gregory had left his coat behind. Mycroft picked it up off the floor, where it had fallen during their kiss. It smelled reassuringly like Gregory, and a little like Mycroft himself. Mycroft lifted it to his face and inhaled deeply, feeling slightly comforted, but nothing compared to having Gregory there in person.

He did not go home that night. Instead he spent it dozing on the sofa in his office, clutching Gregory's coat to him.

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a little wordier than I intended, and not really what I wanted to do with Anthea, but c'est la vie. Thar be angst and anger on that thur horizon - well, for one of out couples at least. For the other...well, the times they are a changin' :)
> 
> I'm almost finished with this guys, just a few more chapters that I need to finish editing, but hopefully in the next day or two you'll have an ending. x

The most powerful woman in the country sat at her desk and frowned as she listened to the conversation going on in the other room and it's subsequent fall out. It seemed that Gregory Lestrade storming out of the office was becoming his normal method of egress.

She thought about the information on chemical suppression she had secreted away in her own deskand resolved that neither men should have to go down that route. Truthfully she had considered it in the early days after the incident when neither man was in a fit state to notice if anything had discreetly been administered. Anthea had ways and means, and it would be far from the first time she had slipped Mycroft something for his own good without his knowledge.

What had started out as a mild flirtation between the two men had very quickly turned into something more substantial, and Anthea had been hopeful for a final partnership for her boss, and she had encouraged it, subtly manipulating his schedule or the sensitivity of certain crime scenes which would mean Mycroft's presence was required. Of course, they were the crime scenes she knew the Detective Inspector would be present at. She watched her boss observe, paying particular attention to the way he watched Lestrade with open interest.

When Sherlock started working with the Met, it was no coincidence that he was working with Lestrade, being the only one that Mycroft felt comfortable enough to allow close access to his brother, despite having never spoken to the man.

Time then for a kidnapping.

Anthea had fought hard to control her glee as she was sent to retrieve the Detective Inspector, or her mild annoyance when the man took the bribe. It took her all of ten minutes to realise that Lestrade was testing Mycroft just as much as Mycroft was testing him, and she relaxed a little and watched the subsequent show with interest.

Playing two alphas was a dangerous move, but it worked. For months and months it worked. Right up until the point where it didn't. And then the world broke.

Anthea had watched with trepidation as Mycroft made mistakes. She had picked up the pieces, covered for him in more ways than she could count. She had reduced his workload, taking on more of the mundane tasks herself. Mycroft would likely never know how much he had approved or rejected or the sheer volume of letters and papers that left the office with his signature on them. Anthea took it on because she knew that she was in part responsible for Mycroft's state of mind.

Occasionally she was overcome with exhaustion and frustration and, unable to smack Mycroft in the mouth, she took her anger out in other ways. She had to admit that the graceful arc her blackberry made as it sailed toward the grey water of the Thames was uniquely satisfying.

That said, the paperwork involved afterwards had not made the act itself all that worthwhile.

Two years she had watched Britain tremble and the British Government struggled with his feelings. Two years she had been atoning for her part in it.

Anthea tapped her perfectly manicured nailed on the edge of her desk. Something was going to break very soon. And whether it was her or Mycroft remained to be seen. Either way, it was not going to be good news for the rest of the country.

 

#

 

John watched through the window of 221B as Sherlock's parents left the flat and hailed a cab with the same ease that Sherlock did, before turning slowly to face the man himself.

'Did they know too?'

Sherlock refused to meet his gaze, but John wasn't going to let it go.

'Hm? That you've spent the last two years playing hide and seek?'

The detective flicked at imaginary pieces of dust on his lap top, head bowed as John leaned over the chair, studying him intently, refusing to let him avoid the question. Eventually Sherlock had no choice but to answer.

'Maybe,' he said in a small voice.

'Ah!' John's anger rose again and he forced it back down, aware that no amount of shouting would help them, 'So _that’s_ why they weren’t at the funeral.'

Sherlock turned away, his defences coming back up, 'Sorry. Sorry _again_.'  
'Hmm.' John was stepping toward the door when he heard Sherlock speak again, his voice unbearably soft.

'Sorry.'

John drew in a deep breath and met his mate's eye for a second before looking down, not quite ready to deal with everything he saw there, and everything that made him feel.

'See you’ve shaved it off, then,' Sherlock's tone was too light, too forced, but part of John appreciated the effort he was making to keep the atmosphere bearable.  
'Yeah,' John played along, 'Wasn’t working for me.  
'Mm, I’m glad.'  
'What, you didn’t like it?'  
Sherlock smiled playfully, 'No. I prefer my doctors clean-shaven.'

John didn't know whether it was the flirtatious tone, the insinuation or the possessive 'my' but he just wasn't ready to go down that route with Sherlock at that moment. He was struggling to be in the same room as the man, smelling him, feeling what he felt, sensing the sheer _want_ that he was fighting himself. Part of John just wanted reach out for him, but something else was holding him back, and until he worked out exactly what he was feeling, it wasn't fair to either of them to pretend things were okay.

So John stepped slightly away, turning his shoulder towards Sherlock to make it clear he wasn't ready.

'That’s not a sentence you hear every day!'

And although he tried to maintain the lightness, he still felt Sherlock's hurt as much as if it had been his own.

 

#

 

Greg was disorientated. The room was full of light and the scent of Mycroft was heavy in the air. He automatically reached out for him, but his hands just met cool sheets. He groaned and rolled over, of course Mycroft wasn't there.

The events of the previous night played across his mind as he forced himself out of bed and opened the window as wide as it would go. For a split second he considered hurling himself out of it, but he doubted the three storeys would be enough to kill him, and it would be just his luck if they didn't.

Instead he peeled off his clothes and stripped the sheets of the bed, throwing the lot into the washing machine with far too much powder, and then he headed to the shower where he stood under too-hot water and scrubbed himself until his skin was red and all traces of Mycroft's scent were gone.

He shaved slowly, taking more care than usual, stopping when he caught sight of the ragged mark on his neck.

Without willing them to, his fingers lifted and traced the outline, feeling the uneven skin, mostly white now, but still with some angry red patches that would likely never fade.

He'd been in the police for a long time and had seen some truly horrific marks, and it pained him that his own was up there with the worst of them, like someone had tried to rip his throat out. Which, he supposed, they had.

It wasn't Mycroft's fault. Greg blamed him for a lot of things, but he couldn't blame him for that. It was instinctive and there was nothing Mycroft could have done.

But was still there, a permanent and prominent reminder of that night and of everything that had gone wrong since. A mark of failure. It was probably a good thing that he wasn't going to mate again. Who wanted a marked alpha after all?

 

#

 

Mycroft woke to find Anthea standing over him with a cup of tea.

'Sir, may I be indelicate?'

She did not wait for an answer, instead she sat down in the leather chair, crossing her long legs and watching her boss carefully as he sat up. Neither commented on the Detective Inspector's coat which was bundled underneath Mycroft, or Mycroft's own dishevelled appearance. She had, after all, seen him in worse states over their years together.

'Is there anything I can do to stop you?' Mycroft took a sip of his tea.

'No.' Anthea smiled.

'Then please, go on. Let's get it over with.'

'Detective Inspector Lestrade,' she paused and Mycroft watched her with interest.

'Yes?'

'With all due respect, sir, I think you are being an idiot.'

Mycroft clearly wasn't expecting to hear her say that.

'Is that so?'

'Yes,' she went on smoothly, unperturbed by his tone, 'He's a good man. He's good for you.'

'He's also an alpha.'

Anthea narrowed her eyes at him, 'You're not really going to try and use that argument, are you, sir?'

'There are many who disapprove of two-'

'Sir, half the cabinet are gay.'

And he couldn't disagree with her on that, much as he would have like to for the sake of the argument. Physical gender had always played a secondary role to sexuality. Male or female it didn't matter. But sexuality, was different. Alpha, beta, omega. There were certain expectations, certain stigmas that still held in places. That said, it was a fact that powerful people were drawn to powerful people and the gameplay that came with it. While there was still those who believed it was morally wrong, it was, in certain circles at least, more and more common to see two of the same sexuality together. Some groups applauded it as a progressive step forward.

But Mycroft had never wanted to be one of those exceptions, and so he'd kept the homophobic argument in reserve for such times as these.

Of course, when Anthea was the one he was trying to argue with, it was never going to score him points. He pressed his lips together, biting back a retort and waiting to see where Anthea was going to take the conversation.

'Sir,' she paused and gave him a sad smile, 'Frankly you are a mess. And I'm exhausted. The longer you carry on like this, the less able you are to do your job and I can't keep doing it for you.'

Mycroft jerked backward at her words.

Of course he'd bee aware that Anthea had been taking on more work, especially in the immediate aftermath of the incident with Gregory. But that was two years ago, and...and, a voice in his head added, you then absorbed yourself in Sherlock rather than deal with it, and you let work slide, focusing on the bigger issues and letting Anthea deal with the minor points. And, the little voice went on, do you remember how many little points there were? So many fine details, irrelevant comments, a hundred MP's all wanting to be seen to get their say in every issue, and every single paper and comment had to be signed off. All those meetings where you zoned out, wondering what that worried feeling was and if Gregory was safe, or planning Sherlock's escape from Serbia. And now, the voice said, that you can't trust anyone except Anthea and Gregory, you've pulled back more and left it all to her.

'You should have said something sooner.'

She smiled again, 'I thought you would have observed.'

He couldn't miss the small note of bitterness in her voice and he looked at her, really looked at her for the first time in months. He saw her exhaustion, and her frustration, and he saw her guilt.

'How big a hand did you have in all of this?' he asked, carefully taking another sip of his tea.

'Big enough, sir.' she did not apologise, and Mycroft could see that she wasn't going to.

'Why?'

She lowered her eyes just for a second, 'I thought he would be good for you.'

'And now?'

'I think I was right. But now the country is falling apart.'

'I thought you said I was falling apart?'

Anthea shrugged, 'Same thing.'

She uncrossed her legs and made to stand.

'I've done all I can, sir. It's up to you to sort it now.'

'And if I don't?'

She just raised an eyebrow at him and left the office.

'I'll have the car ready for six,' she said, her professional tone slipping back into place easily, 'The vote on the anti-terrorism bill is tonight. The briefing is on your desk.'

 


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about this chapter - I'd wanted to put it up earlier today, but I had to go back through it and cut so much out of it. I hate having to rely on canon lines, but in this chapter it was necessary. Damn that bloody train! Still, It's a long one and we shall be returning to our regularly scheduled material in the next chapter. 
> 
> And as always, thank you all for your kind comments and kudos, it's been amazing. x c

'Sir,' Anthea leaned over Mycroft, speaking quietly, 'You're brother and Dr Watson have been seen entering Westminster Station.'

'And?'

'Your brother had taken the tube twice in eleven years.'

'Ah. Check that someone had called bomb disposal.'

She nodded and left as quietly as she entered. Several minutes later she returned, the epitome of the professional personal assistant, and she slid a manilla file in front of Mycroft. The action did not raise any suspicions, secretaries, assistants and advisors were always passing on information and briefing as these meeting progressed. He opened it and glanced down at the single page it contained.

 

_SH ten minutes ago._

 

Mycroft nodded once and closed the folder, passing it back to Anthea.

 

#

 

'What are you doing?'

John looked up from his mobile as he followed Sherlock through the tube station, 'Calling the police.'  
'What? No!'  
'Sherlock, this isn’t a game,' John was angry, 'They need to evacuate Parliament.'  
But Sherlock didn't seem to grasp the importance of the situation, 'They’ll get in the way. They always do,' he said stopping at a locked gate.

To John's surprise, Sherlock pulled a crowbar from his coat. Where the hell had he been hiding that? It made John wonder what else Sherlock had in his pockets. The answer didn't bear thinking about. John had once found half a frog and a bag of toenail clipping in there when he was looking for Sherlock's wallet to pay the taxi driver.

Sherlock was already forcing the gate open, 'This is cleaner, more efficient.'  
'And illegal.'  
'A bit,' Sherlock conceded as the gate opened.

As they made their way down the maintenance tunnel, John checked his phone again only to find that he had no service. He hesitated, torn between going back to phone the police for help, and following after Sherlock to make sure he didn't land himself in more trouble than he could get out of.  
Ahead of him Sherlock lifted his head as if he could sense what John was at. He didn't look round, just tilted his chin in that questioning way of his, 'What are you doing?'

John sighed and put his phone back in his pocket, 'Coming.'

 

#

 

Mycroft realised that Anthea deserved another pay rise when she orchestrated a short recess for tea half an hour ahead of schedule, allowing Mycroft to excuse himself to make a call. He moved away from the open door, and while Anthea kept watch over the attendees in the room, Mycroft composed himself before dialling.

'Gregory? Please listen, I need your help. It's Sherlock and John...'

 

#

 

Greg was pulling on his coat as he walked, mobile still in his hand, already dialling for backup. Bloody Sherlock. And bloody John too. Some things clearly hadn't changed in two years apart. If it wasn't drugs it was breaking and entering, illegal possession of a firearm or theft of body parts. Greg had lost count of the number of times either he or Molly had to lecture Sherlock on the fact that he couldn't treat the morgue as some sort of all you can carry free for all.

He almost hadn't answered when Mycroft called, and he still almost wished that he hadn't. For one moment he had actually thought the man was calling to apologise. Which just went to show that he had learned nothing at all over the last two years.

Even so, he sighed, using his free hand to locate his car keys, he wasn't about to let Sherlock and John run loose in the train tunnels when there was probably a bomb under there somewhere. Because no matter that there were over 250 miles of track to chose from, he would bet his flat and a years salary that Sherlock and John would end up in the 20 feet that contained the bomb.

 

#

 

Anthea looked expectantly at Mycroft as he returned to the meeting, his mobile nowhere to be seen. He met her questioning gaze and nodded once, which seemed to satisfy her and she stood aside to allow Mycroft to re-enter the room. She followed a few seconds later, but not without typing out a text.

#

 

_Careful._

 

_#_

 

Sherlock jumped off the platform onto the tracks. John ran forward in alarm.

'Hang on! Sherlock?'

It was a testament to their relationship that Sherlock actually stopped and turned, 'What?'

'That's...isn't that live?'

With a sigh Sherlock turned away again and set off along the tracks, 'Perfectly safe as long as we avoid touching the rails.'

'Course, yeah,' John jumped down with far more caution than Sherlock had, 'Avoid the rails. Great.'

 

#

 

Mycroft tried to focus on what was going on around him, aware that he should be paying more attention to the discussion on the anti-terrorism bill prior to the all night sitting. But all he could think was that his brother and Gregory were somewhere beneath his feet chasing a bomb and that any moment they, and everyone else in this very building, could be gone.

Gregory hadn't hesitated when Mycroft told him it was Sherlock and John. He hadn't let his relationship with Mycroft stand in the way, or tried to use it as an excuse. He just put it all to one side and was ready to go for them, knowing the situation, knowing how likely Sherlock was to land them all in trouble, and knowing that there were hundreds of people who's lives were at stake if Sherlock got it wrong. Mycroft didn't think he had ever respected anyone more than he had respected DI Lestrade in that very moment.

 

#

 

In the tunnel John and Sherlock were staring upward, their torchlight illuminating hundreds of small demolition charges embedded in the ceiling, wires running towards the single train carriage sitting on the tracks ahead.

Moving slower now, John ducked down and shone his light underneath the carriage as Sherlock moved around to the side towards the back, opening the door. John joined him a second later, climbing in behind him. Without a word to each other, they started to systematically check under every seat and in every corner.  
'It’s empty,' John said, his eyes still raking the floor and walls, 'There’s nothing.'

Sherlock shone his torch along the wall, illuminating a set of black and red cables that ran the length of the carriage and down the back of the one of the seats, 'Isn't there?'

Bending down, Sherlock gently lifted the seat cushion, shining his light underneath.

'This is the bomb.'

'What?'

Sherlock indicated the cavity beneath the seat cushion, and John looked over his shoulder to see a mess of wires. Sherlock glanced at him, his face pale in the darkness.

'It's not carrying explosives. The whole compartment _is_ the bomb.'

 

#

 

Where would they be? Where would they be?

Greg tried to think. If he were a terrorist, where would he plant a bomb?

He could only think of one place, but he had to be sure. He'd been trying the bomb squad for ten minutes in the vague hope that one of them had actually had the common sense to call for help, but the lines were jammed and John's mobile was going straight to voicemail.

Thinking back to the files Mycroft had asked him to look over Greg reconsidered his suspicions. That would be his best bet, but he needed to be sure. If he wasn't on time...

 

#

 

_Was I right? G_

 

_#_

 

_yes._

 

_#_

 

That was all the confirmation Greg needed. Turning on the lights he made his way for Westmister, already calling the Yard to organise a complete shutdown of the Underground. He'd better be right. But on the upside, if he was wrong, he'd never know.

'Sal, I need a favour...'

 

#

 

Sherlock was on his hands and knees, pulling up a loose floor panel as John tried to take stock of the situation, feeling strangely calm as the adrenaline coursed through him. He could feel Sherlock's energy. It wasn't fear, it was _excitement._ And John almost smiled as he realised that was what Sherlock lived off, just like John. But instead of channelling that adrenaline, that fear into a focus like John did, Sherlock used it as energy.

John glanced over Sherlock's shoulder at the massive device hidden in the floor, ''We need bomb disposal.'

'There may not be time for that now.'  
'So what do we do?'  
Sherlock paused, and John tasted uncertainty in his scent, 'I have no idea.'

Perhaps it was because Sherlock seemed more intrigued by the notion that he didn't know something rather than the fact they were inside a _massive bomb_ that annoyed John enough to snap, 'Well, think of something.'  
Sherlock looked up at him, brow creased in confusion, and when he spoke it was with the childishly questioning tone that John hated so much, 'Why do you think _I_ know what to do?'  
  


#

 

As Greg ignored the other cars on the road, the road marking and several pedestrians to pull up at the entrance to the station, he spotted half a dozen uniformed police officers cordoning off the area around the station and starting to divert traffic away from the bridge. Abandoning the car, half on the foot path, half on the road, he sent up a silent prayer for Sally Donovan and flashed his ID at the nearest constable before ducking under the tape and descending the stairs.

 

#

 

The Chamber was full and the quiet buzz of conversation was lowering. Mycroft stood to beside the Minister for Transport, always careful to maintain his cover, and scanned the room, quickly counting Members in his head.

759.

Only one missing. Lord Moran. Despite the situation, Mycroft felt a tiny twitch of a smile that would have been invisible to anyone looking even directly at him, and felt a tiny surge of pride.

Gregory had been right.

 

#

 

John had never seen a bomb before. Not up close. He'd witnessed plenty of them, and their after effects. He'd even been caught up in a few minor explosions that had nothing to do with Sherlock's adventures. But in his mind they were just shapes, subconsciously blank and featureless. Bombs, he'd always thought, shouldn't look like bombs.

Whoever had put this one together clearly hadn't subscribed to the same school of thought. It was a mass of wires and lights and looked like something out of an action movie. Before he could even begin to fully process what he was looking at, all the lights in the carriage came on and the red clock began to count down.

'Er...'

John's breath was squeezed out of his chest as Sherlock got to his feet, 'My God! Why didn’t you call the police?'

Sherlock turned and reached for him, whether to give or receive comfort John wasn't sure, but he was suddenly too angry to care.

'Please just...'  
'Why do you _never_ call the police?' John shouted.

Sherlock pouted, 'Well, it’s no use now.'  
'So you _can’t_ switch the bomb off? You can’t switch the bomb off and you didn’t call the police.' He had to turn away from Sherlock then, unable to look at him as he battled the anger and the nausea and cold coursing through his veins. When he turned back again Sherlock was looking at him, his face was open but his strange eyes were unreadable and for perhaps only the second time since meeting, John couldn't tell what Sherlock was feeling or thinking.  
'Go, John,' Sherlock said in a level voice, pointing towards the door, 'Go now.'  
'There’s no _point_ now, is there, because there’s not enough time to get away; and if we don’t do this...' he waved his hand around them, '... other people will _die_!'  
Sherlock screwed his eyes closed, hands at his head as he tried to think through everything he knew that might help. John watched, feeling helpless.

'Think!'

Sherlock jerked in nervousness and John moved closer to him, instinctively wanting to comfort him, and knowing that just his presence would help Sherlock to calm down enough to be able to think properly.

'Please,' he begged softly, wanting to reach out brush Sherlock's hair off his forehead, 'Please think.'

 

#

 

Bomb Disposal were running along the tracks ahead of him, and Greg struggled to keep up with them in the dark. He'd been assured that power to the tracks had been turned off in this section, but he wasn't taking any chances. Just in case he survived a giant bomb, the last thing he wanted was to become a human piece of toast because he put his foot down where he shouldn't.

He wasn't entirely sure where they were, but he knew they were going in the right direction, and he knew that they were close, and when he felt a soft warmth in his body he knew that somewhere, just above them, was Mycroft, and he was thinking of Greg.

 

#

 

Sherlock raised his head and looked straight into John's eyes.

'I'm sorry,' he said, so softly that John's heart broke right there. He watched as Sherlock's eyes filled with tears, 'I can’t ... I can’t do it, John. I don’t know how.'

He sat up onto his knees, looking up at John, asking for forgiveness in every way he could, _'_ Forgive me?' he was pleading now, 'Please, John, forgive me ... for all the hurt that I caused you.  
John wanted to hold him, but something pulled him back, 'No, no, no, no, no, no. This is a trick.'

'No.'  
Looking down at his one-time mate John was angry, 'Another one of your bloody tricks.'  
'No.'

You’re just trying to make me say something nice.'  
Sherlock actually laughed. It was soft and pained though, and it took away the edge of John's fury, 'Not this time.'  
'It’s just to make you look good even though you behaved like...' he wanted to shout, he wanted to rage at the omega on the floor in front of him, but looking down at the other man, begging for forgiveness, John just couldn't. But the anger didn't go away, instead it crystallised into something else, a savageness that came out when he spoke again, 'I wanted you not to be dead.'  
Sherlock gave a twisted smile, 'Yeah, well, be careful what you wish for. If I hadn’t come back, you wouldn’t be standing there and you’d still have a future...' only then did Sherlock look up at him again, and this time John was hit with the full force of Sherlock's feels, everything good, all the love all the excitement. Everything bad, all the anger and the betrayal. And it was only then, with Sherlock looking up at him with an accusatory challenge in his eyes, that John realised how he had betrayed Sherlock too. Sherlock struggled to take a breath, seemingly coming to realisations of his own, '... with Mary.'

  
#

 

Greg Lestrade watched from a distance as John Watson was led away by a paramedic, while another examined Sherlock. The he took out his phone and sent two texts.

 

#

 

_Success. G_

 

_#_

 

_We should talk. G_

 

 


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A second update in one day? Well now, how about that? Let's get these boys on the road to recovery shall we?

As Mycroft Holmes was leaving his office for the evening, he was met by Detective Inspector Lestrade coming towards him with a strange look on his face and a piece of paper in his hand.

'Mycroft Holmes you are so full of shit.'

That startled Mycroft, and he stopped dead as the DI closed the gap between them, holding out the paper for him to see.

''Thank you for your diligence'? 'Utmost respect' ? Prudence and valour in complex circumstances'?' he screwed up his nose, 'Do you talk like that all the time? And thank-you letters, who even writes those any more?'

'I simply wished to express my gratitude over your handling of the Baskerville situation.' Mycroft felt distinctly at a disadvantage.

'That was a week ago.'

'Yes, well.' Mycroft readjusted his grip on his umbrella.

'And I've seen you since I got back,' Greg grinned at him, 'Seen quite a bit of you. All of you in fact.'

Mycroft lifted his chin in challenge, 'I felt I did not get a chance to properly thank you.'

'I don't know, you seemed to do a pretty good job of thanking me.'

'That was for brining my brother back unscathed,' Mycroft's eyes were glinting in the streetlight, 'I don't believe I ever expressed my gratitude to you for actually _going_ to Baskerville in the first place.'

Greg nodded slowly, playing along, 'Is that why you wrote to invite me to dinner as a thank you?'

'I'm afraid dinner was, in that context, something of a euphemism for large quantities of excellent scotch and a frankly ridiculous amount of enthusiastic sex.'

Mycroft was seldom so blunt, but for once he was glad of it, given the grin it drew from the Detective Inspector.

'You know,' Lestrade said, 'I think that might be the first honest thing you have said to me since we met.' He paused, making a great show of letting his gaze travel up and down the length of Mycroft's body, 'Was there any day you had in mind?'

Mycroft leaned forward, just slightly, close enough to catch Lestrade's scent, 'Are you free now, Detective Inspector?'

Greg swallowed, 'I believe I am.'

'Excellant,' Mycroft smiled, motioning for his driver, 'We could perhaps begin our...discussion in the car on the way?'

As Mycroft spoke his pretty assistant came down the steps behind them, blackberry in one hand and a stack of files clutched against her chest. On hearing her boss's words she rolled her eyes and went back inside again.

Neither Mycroft not Lestrade noticed.

 

#

 

Greg opened the door of his flat to find Mycroft sitting in the armchair. He knew he should have been angry, but he was too tired and just peeled off his jacket and threw his keys on the sideboard. He noticed his coat had been returned and was hanging neatly on the stand beside the door. There were two cups on the table. One tea and one strong black coffee.

'You really need to stop breaking in.'

'You said we should talk.' Mycroft raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Sitting down on the sofa, as far away from Mycroft as the small room would allow, Greg nodded and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

'Yeah, I suppose I did.'

'Before we do,' Mycroft said, an edge of anxiety in his smooth voice, 'I just wanted to thank you for what you did tonight.'

Greg shrugged and lifted his coffee, 'Couldn't have every politician in the country getting blown up, could we?'

'Some would say it would be an improvement on the normal state of affairs.'

'Yeah well, you were there too, so...' Greg trailed off as he realised what he said, 'Sorry. I just meant-'

'I wanted to give you this,' Mycroft ignored him and pulled an envelope from his pocket and set it on the coffee table. Greg made no move to take it. Keeping his gaze lowered, Mycroft began to explain, 'It will cover the first five years of a course of chemical treatment. I will have a trust set in place to make regular payments after that for the rest of your life. Or however long you wish to continue the course.'

Greg blinked, shocked into silence. He'd asked Mycroft to pay, but he'd honestly expected more of a fight. Some snide comments at the very least.

'If this is about tonight then you don't have to pay me to do my job.'

'I'm not,' Mycroft swallowed and Greg could feel how hard the man was trying to contain himself, 'I'm simply attempting to put things right.'

Greg leaned back on the sofa and regarded Mycroft, 'And you think this is putting things right?'

'It's what you asked me to.'

'I've asked you to do a lot of things over the last couple of years. You've never bothered until now.'

'And for that I can only apologise. My actions have never been intended to cause upset, but I appreciate how my words can often be insensitive in tone and lyrical construct.'

Greg gaped at him, then he pulled himself together enough to shake his head, letting out a huff of laughter.

'You are so full of shit, Mycroft Holmes.'

At that Mycroft finally lifted his head and looked at Greg.

'You just can't say it, can you?' Greg was still laughing, but there were traces of bitterness in it, 'You just can't say that you were wrong, can you? All this time and you are still trying to talk around me with words.'

'Gregory-'

'Because you know what, it would have been okay. I mean, if you'd just been decent about it all, said straight out, if you'd fucking _helped_ get through it. But no, not Mycroft Holmes, because Mycroft Holmes is above sorting out his own mess. Instead he hides in his office and sends his minions to do his dirty work and when that doesn't work,' Greg leaned forward and lifted the envelope, screwing it into a ball and tossing it back at Mycroft, 'You throw money at it and hope it just goes away.'

The balled envelope fell to the floor and neither man made a move to lift it.

'I told you before, Mycroft, don't ever try and bribe me again.'

'I wasn't trying to-'

'Just go.'

'You said you wanted to tal-

'Go.' Greg sighed, head falling forward again, coffee mug clutched in both hands. He closed his eyes and listened at Mycroft slowly stood. The gently slide of expensive fabric as Mycroft smoothed his clothing, and soft steps away from Greg towards the door. He didn't know why, but Greg counted Mycroft's breaths, some strange compulsion from the nights they used to spend together, when he would lie awake, waiting for Mycroft to breathe, and reassured every time he did, even with the soft reassurance of the man's heartbeat against his cheek.

He thought for a moment Mycroft had gone, God knew the man could move silently enough, but then there was another breath, over by the door. Greg waited for the sound of the handle or the click of the door closing behind Mycroft, but there was just silence in the flat. Greg could feel Mycroft looking at him, but refused to acknowledge it, keeping his head lowered until the man left.

'Please Mycroft, just-'

'You terrify me.'

At that Greg finally looked up, fixing Mycroft with an incredulous stare, 'I what?'

Mycroft nodded, face contorted as he struggled to vocalise whatever was going on in that amazing mind of his, 'Everything about you frightens me. How easily you walked into my life and made me follow you. How I can't think straight when you're around. How I can't think when you're _not_ around. How you can say and do the most ridiculous things one minute and the next be the most compassionate and commanding man,' he paused, looking at Greg with those stormy eyes of his, 'I spent forty years carefully building walls to keep people from knowing me, to keep them away. You didn't knock them down,' Mycroft gave a short laugh, 'You just walked right through them like they weren't there are at all. And I let you. And that terrifies me.'

Greg looked down into his coffee mug, swirling the remains around, 'Why didn't you say something?'

'What part of being terrified didn't you understand?' Mycroft gave a watery smile, 'And after the incident-'

'I wish you would stop calling it that.'

'-it was so much worse. I panicked. It wasn't something I had ever wanted, with anyone. But then you came along and I started to have feelings for you, and I thought that if I could just keep you at arms length then I would get to keep you.'

'Myc, that doesn't even make sense,' Greg shook his head.

Mycroft licked his lips, 'I thought that if you got too close, if you found out who I really was, then you would realise I wasn't good enough for you and you would leave. I thought that if I could let you get just close enough for you to stay, but not too close, that-'

'You're a fucking idiot!'

Mycroft jerked at Greg's shout, eyes wide in alarm as he looked up at him. Greg was on his feet then, pacing the room then, trying to control the anger, desperate to shout and rage and possibly hit something. Or someone.

'Do you have any idea what you've done to me?' he hissed, pausing for a second to lean in close to Mycroft, pointing his finger in the other man's face, 'I have spent two years thinking that I wasn't good enough for _you_. That you rejected me because the thought of being with someone like me... You put me through utter hell, and now you're sitting here telling me that it was because-Jesus Mycroft!' Greg threw himself down in the chair Mycroft had vacated and buried his face in his hands.

'I'm-'

'You say you're sorry and I swear to God I will punch you.'

'Gregory, I am sorry.'

Greg lifted his mug off the table and hurled it at the wall behind Mycroft, where it shattered.

'Do you really think 'sorry' is going to fix anything? One heartfelt conversation and all would be forgiven?'

There was silence in the room, the only sound Greg's heavy breaths, and suddenly all the anger drained out of Greg.

'See,' he said softly, 'This is why it doesn't work. Two alphas. I get it now. You were right.'

'No, I wasn't.'

Greg laughed, 'Is that the great Mycroft Holmes admitting he was wrong?'

Mycroft's only response was to walk across the floor and sit down on sofa, reaching out and taking hold of Greg's hand. Greg looked down at their intertwined fingers and sighed.

'So what now?'

Mycroft looked like he didn't understand the question, so Greg tried again.

'I said we should talk, but we could have done it on the phone. Or the office. But you came here. Why?'

'I wanted to give you-'

'No,' Greg cut him off with a stern look, 'Try again, Mycroft.'

Mycroft glanced down at their hands and made to pull his own away, but Greg gripped tighter with his own fingers, keeping Mycroft where he was.

'You came all the way here by yourself when you didn't need to. You didn't need to deliver that yourself, and you didn't need to speak face to face. You're here for a reason, Mycroft. So are you going to tell me straight? What is it that you want Mycroft?'

'You.' Mycroft sounded surprised. Greg watched as Mycroft realised what he was saying, his eyebrows raised, gaze still focused on their hands, 'I want you. I should have said it, done something about it a long time ago but I... was...I want you to give me another chance.'

The honesty of the words touched Greg, surprised him. But he held back.

'I don't know if I can, Myc. I mean, how many chances am I supposed to give you before I give up?'

Mycroft tilted his head to one side, 'What is it that _you_ want, Gregory?'

Greg didn't hesitate, 'I want to know, without any doubt, that if we do this, that it's real. That's it's because we _want_ it. Not just because of _biology.'_

Mycroft closed his eyes, 'I should never have said that.'

'No,' Greg agreed.

'Will you give me a chance to prove it to you?'

And that was the question Mycroft should have asked two years ago, but didn't. He'd had all the time leading up to that moment to then to say those words.

'Why now?'

Mycroft took his time answering, 'I see Sherlock and how much he hurt John, and what he lost because of his actions, however well intended they were. He lost everything trying to do the right thing. And I was trying to throw it away because I was scared of it. I was doing the same thing Sherlock was, I was hurting you because I cared about you. But I was doing it for selfish reasons. It was never just biology.'

They just looked at each other after that, still holding hands until Greg spoke, his voice careful and measured.

'I'm not trying to punish you, Myc, I want you to understand that. This isn't what it's about, okay?'

Mycroft nodded.

'But I need some time to think about this. Before we make any decisions. Do you understand?'

Mycroft's only response was a gentle squeeze of Greg's hand.

 

#

 

 

In her discreet office in Westminster a pretty brunette deactivated the bug in Detective Inspector Lestrade's flat and leaned back in her chair with a sigh.

About fucking time, Anthea thought.


	28. Chapter 28

Greg signed his name on another form and added it to the rapidly growing pile that he was going to have to explain and justify in his report. Which he hadn't started yet. He looked up as a young PC brought him in another sheaf of papers.

'What's this?'

'For the helicopter.'

Greg groaned and rubbed his eyes with one hand, reaching out with the other to take the papers. When the PC had left he called Anthea.

'Just tell me what I did.'

He could almost hear the laughter in Antheas voice as she feigned hurt, 'You called me a minion.'

'And that justifies,' he checked the list he was keeping, 'Sixteen squad cars, three ambulances, the whole of central London closed to traffic, oh, and a helicopter? You don't think that's going a bit overboard?'

'You're lucky I like you,' she laughed and hung up.

 

#

 

'I think I hate Anthea,' Greg told Mycroft when he called later that day.

'Is this about the helicopter?'

'She told you?'

'She might have mentioned it. Consider yourself fortunate, she was in the middle of requesting a submarine when I caught her.'

'And you stopped her with your commanding tone, presence and threats?'

'I bribed her with dinner at Claridges.'

'Huh,' Greg huffed playfully, 'You never took me to Claridges?'

'I did try once, remember? But you thought you were underdressed, and then you decided that you might as well be completely undressed and well...' Mycroft sighed theatrically.

Greg smiled at the memory.

'However,' Mycroft went on, his tone more serious, 'Aren't you glad that she _did_ call for three ambulances?'

Greg had to admit that he was. He didn't know what happened, or what was said inside that train carriage, but when he arrived he could tell that something was very, very wrong. The bomb disposal guys could sense it too, which possibly explained why one of them was distracted enough to miss the step and fall three feet to the ground, breaking his ankle in the process.

John was pale and shaking, a nervous wreck unable to stand by himself. Greg didn't get close enough to talk to him, or even to see him properly as he was half-led, half-carried out of the tunnel by paramedics.

Sherlock had been sitting on the bottom step of the driver's compartment staring into the middle distance as he was checked over. He wasn't moving at all, barely breathing, but Greg could smell distress pouring off him in waves. The young paramedic was clearly very concerned about him too and she looked at Greg as he approached.

'Do you know him?' she asked.

Greg nodded, 'He's a friend.' he leaned down and pulled the blanket closer around Sherlock's shoulders and looked closely at his face. Sherlock's eyes focused on him for a second, but then he was gone again, retreating back into his own mind as if being part of the real world was just too much effort at that moment.

'Does he have to go in?' Greg asked.

'I'd prefer he was completely checked over, yeah,' she looked nervous, 'We just have to wait for the alpha to leave.'

'Can't they go together?' Greg had spent many an ambulance ride with Sherlock over the years, sometimes he was eve the injured one, and once he had to help out when a coked-up Sherlock knocked one of the paramedics out stone cold before he could be restrained. That had not been a fun ride.

'Not procedure,' she said in a strained tone.

Greg just nodded, not willing to create a scene, 'And John, the alpha, is he alright?' he pointed up the tunnel to where John was disappearing.

She looked uncertain that she should be talking to him, 'Are you family?'

He pulled out his ID and showed her, 'Police. And like I said, I'm a friend.'

She looked a little more at ease, 'Severe shock.'

'Will he be alright?'

She shrugged again and Greg nodded, 'Okay. Thanks.'

Fifteen minutes later he was standing on the street watching Sherlock being loaded into an ambulance. He was quieter than Greg had ever seen him, and he was genuinely worried.

'Can I go with him?'

When he got the nod of approval he pulled himself into the back and sat down. For the whole ride he never took his eyes off Sherlock.

 

#

 

Mycroft was on his way into the hospital when he met Gregory coming out. He had spotted the DI from a distance, and contemplated avoiding the man by stepping into a side corridor. He'd become very skilled at not being seen by Gregory Lestrade over the last two years. But things needed to be different, he reminded himself. Which is why, despite their agreement not to see each other for a while, he walked forward to greet the other man.

'Mycroft,' Gregory looked surprised. And exhausted.

'Gregory,' he tried a smile but it wouldn't work properly, 'How is my brother.'

Gregory shook his head, 'It's...I don't know. I haven't seen him like this sober before.'

'He's not high?'

'No! No. Trust me, I got them to check as soon as we arrived,' Gregory took a deep breath, 'It's like he's just...somewhere else. Hasn't said a word. He's just laying there.'

Mycroft nodded and squeezed Gregory's shoulder, 'Thank you.'

He made to walk on down the corridor, but Gregory spoke again.

'I was just nipping out for a smoke and then I was going to get a sandwich, any preference?'

'Thank you, but I'm not hungry.'

'And I'll bet you haven't eaten since breakfast,' Gregory gave him a disapproving look, 'Should I call Anthea and check?'

Mycroft glared at him but relented, 'Surprise me.'

A brief smile was flashed in his direction before Gregory carried on down the corridor.

 

#

 

While Greg stood in the queue, he took a moment to text Anthea.

 

_John? G_

 

The response came immediately, as if Anthea had been waiting for the text.

 

_Complicated._

 

_Bad? G_

 

_Very._

 

_Mycroft? G_

 

_Yes._

 

Greg glanced back through the exchange and marvelled at how much could be conveyed in a single word. So Mycroft had seen John. That was a relief because Greg didn't even know where John was, and for the last few hours it hadn't really occurred to him to ask, he was too concerned with Sherlock.

Anxious to find out how the doctor was, Greg grabbed the first two pre-packed sandwiches he could reach and headed back to Sherlock's room.

 

#

 

'Consider me surprised,' Mycroft examined the contents of his sandwich carefully, 'Smoked salmon and tomato chutney.'

'Consider yourself lucky,' Greg pulled a face as he bit into his own.

'And yours?'

'Roast beef and potato salad,'he forced himself to swallow, 'Maybe it's one of those pilot schemes you lot are always thinking up.'

' _My_ lot?'

'Government types. Always trying to improve things by making them worse.'

Mycroft delicately picked some limp rocket out of the chutney and set it on a paper napkin, 'I can assure you that I know of no scheme dedicated to experimental sandwich making.'

On the bed beside them Sherlock was asleep. Well, Greg preferred to think of it as asleep. It was the first time he'd seen Sherlock sedated without heroin being involved at some stage during the process. Greg had been surprised, Sherlock had seemed to calm on the outside. But, as the doctor informed him and Mycroft, it was what was going on inside Sherlock that was cause for concern. His heart rate was far too fast and his body was working far too hard. Sedating him had been the only option.

'There's also something chemical going on,' the doctor began.

'Drugs?' Greg's head snapped around.

'No. May I ask...where is his mate?'

'Unavailable,' Mycroft's voice was smooth.

'It could be something to do with separation anxiety then,' the doctor wrote someone on the chart and then then glanced at Mycroft and Greg, 'Are either of you family? It's just without his own-'

'I would urge you to reconsider your choice of words,' Mycroft reached for the chart, taking his own pen out of his inside pocket. He glanced down the form and signed it then glared at the doctor until he left.

'Was he seriously about to say 'owner'?' Greg breathed out incredulously.

Mycroft pursed his lips, 'Unfortunately some people still subscribe to the concept that omegas are property.' Mycroft took a deep breath and his normal demeanour returned, '

But Greg wasn't taken in, 'What are you going to do to him?'

'Me? Nothing. Honestly Gregory, you are always so suspicious.'

'For two reasons, one, I'm a police officer and two, I've met you.'

'I can assure you that no harm will come to Dr Walsh.'

'Thank you.'

'In fact, a small promotion may be a suitable compensate for his part in Sherlock's care.'

'Mycroft-?'

'I shall have Anthea scout for suitable placements.'

Greg shook his head, knowing he'd lose any argument he started with Mycroft. He could only hope that Anthea was in a good mood when she chose, or more likely, created a job for the unsuspecting Dr Walsh. Instead, Greg picked at is sandwich and asked about John.

'Dr Watson is...not good.'

'That seems to be a bit of an understatement. I saw him leave the tunnel, remember?'

Mycroft nodded, 'Unfortunately he has not improved much since. He's not talking, but Mary is with him,' Mycroft pulled a face as he said the name, 'Until either of them are in a fit state to talk, we won't know the truth.'

'They were almost blown up, I think a bit of post traumatic stress is normal.'

'Perhaps.'

Greg eyed him across the room, 'You think there's something else.'

It wasn't a question.

Mycroft focused all of his attention on wrapping up the remains of his sandwich, 'I'm not a doctor, Gregory.'

'Hm.' Was all Greg said.

 

#

 

Greg went to call Mrs Hudson to let her know what was happening. He glossed over the bit with the bomb, just saying that Sherlock had a bit of a shock while on a case. So used to dealing with Sherlock was she, that Mrs Hudson just tutted and took the room number, promising to visit in the morning.

As he went in search of coffee, Greg wondered what else the landlady had been forced to endure from Sherlock over the years. She certainly wasn't surprised by half the stuff she found in his fridge.

 

#

 

_City Clinical seeking consultant_ _p_ _hysiologist._

 

_#_

 

_Where's City Clinical? G_

 

_#_

 

_Yakutsk._

 


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little update this evening folks. I've been finding these last couple of chapters harder than I thought to deal with in edits. But here's a little one to keep you going.

 Their fourth date memorable for all sorts of reasons. Well, technically it was their first date, the others had just sort of...happened. But the fourth one was planned in advance. It wasn't exactly what Mycroft would have chosen, but there was a small situation developing in Tehran that he was certain was going to require his attention, so he met Gregory for lunch rather than dinner.

Conversation was easy, both happy to discuss work, and knowing the limits of the questions they could ask about those topics, both well used to confidentiality and the sensitive nature of their respective jobs.

Mycroft found himself staring at the detective inspector, trying to gauge his moral values. He was aware, on a base level, of the day to day nature of Gregory's work, he had, after all, had a hand in writing the job specification many years previously. But he also suspected that Gregory did more than he admitted to, and that some of it could be questionable. He suspected, especially given the way Gregory had allowed Sherlock access, that the DI treated the law as flexible far more often than he would admit to.

'So,' Gregory looked up from his lasagne, 'How many people have you killed?'

Mycroft found himself surprised, a rare occurrence in itself. But the directness that Gregory had delivered the question, and without assumption, was the most startling. The man asked the question in the same voice he asked about the weather.

'Directly or indirectly?'

Gregory just looked at him.

Mycroft lifted his glass of water, not taking his eyes of Gregory's, almost challenging him to see what he was going to say next.

'How's your fish?' Gregory smiled at him then, one of his bright, open smiles.

Mycroft never did answer the question.

 

#

 

Mycroft and Greg lapsed into silence after a while. It was easier to pretend the other wasn't there. After so long it was hard to pretend things were, or could be, normal again. So Mycroft worked on one side of Sherlock's bed, and Greg sat on the other reading the newspaper and playing games on his phone.

Periodically a nurse came to check Sherlock's temperature and oxygen levels. After the third time, Greg leaned forward and quietly asked the nurse, 'When he gets out, can he have a copy of all of those charts?'

'I'll ask the doctor, but I don't see why not,' she said as she waited on the ear thermometer to beep.

'Thank you, I'd really appreciate that....?'

'Kate.'

'Kate,' Greg repeated.

Out of the corner of his eye Greg saw Mycroft lift his head for a second, before going back to whatever top secret documents he was reading. As she left the nurse gave Greg a warm smile and as she left the room there was an added swing to her hips that hadn't been there before.

Mycroft lifted his eyes and looked over the papers at Greg, who had returned to his phone and didn't look up, although he could feel Mycroft watching him.

'You know how he feels about data collection.' Greg said

'He'll question the validity of the information, variables in recording, accuracy, interpretations, timing, individuals, human error.' Mycroft stopped and rethought his own words, 'It'll keep him amused for hours.'

Greg carried on scrolling through his phone, but was pleased that he and Mycroft were on the same wavelength about _something._

Another hour passed and Mycroft stood up, laying his open document on the foot of Sherlock's bed and stretching discreetly. Greg glanced sideways, the papers Mycroft had laid down were just inches from his elbow, open and easily readable should he be so inclined.

'Um, Mycroft...' Greg tilted his head towards them, but Mycroft failed to see the problem.

'Yes? You have signed the Official Secrets Act?'

'Well...yeah,' Greg frowned, 'Well, I signed a bit of paper that said I would follow it, which is-'

'All the same thing.'

Mycroft made no move to close the file, and Greg tried not to look at it, but it was hard to miss the words 'TOP SECRET' printed across the top of the page.

'Top secret? Mycroft, that says it's top secret! You can't leave top secret documents laying open like that.'

'I gave you top secret documents to take home with you.'

Greg was silenced as he thought about the full implication of that statement.

'Do you...' he asked slowly, wanting to remove any possible doubt, '...do you really trust me that much?'

'I trust you with Sherlock,' Mycroft said, as if that were the only answer that could possibly have any meaning.

Greg felt a soft warmth through his body at the praise from his once-mate. The bond between them was fine and fragile, but a small element of it was still there. Enough for Greg to feel when Mycroft smiled, despite still facing the other way.

 

#

 

Greg hadn't even been aware that he was dozing off until Mycroft's voice cut through the silence.

'You don't have to stay, Detective Inspector.'

Sitting up straighter and trying to clear the fog of sleep, Greg snorted lightly, 'So we're back to that again?'

'It's your name.'

'It's my title.' Greg shot back, a small sense of victory as he outwitted a Holmes.

'Fair enough,' Mycroft waved his hand in defeat, 'You don't have to stay Detective Inspector _Lestrade.'_

Greg gave a small chuckle and reached for his phone to check the time, 'I'd rather not,' he said, aware that his voice was a little too strained, 'Last time I took my eyes off him when he was in a state, he ended up stepping off a roof.'

'That wasn't your fault.'

'It kinda was.'

More silence. This time it was more awkward than it had been previously, and Greg stood up.

'Coffee?'

'Tea, if you could find some, would be lovely.'

'Lovely? You've never had hospital tea before, have you?' but he was out the door before Mycroft had a chance to reply.

 

#

Mycroft hadn't moved when Greg returned, a cup in each hand and two KitKats held under his chin. He passed one of the cups to Mycroft, careful not to spill anything on the paperwork spread over Mycroft's knee. Once his own cup was set carefully on the bedside cabinet, he tossed on of the chocolate bars at Mycroft, enjoying the mix of horror and surprise on Mycroft's face as it landed in his lap.

'What's this?'

'KitKat,' Greg was already unwrapping his.

'Chocolate? You know I don't eat-'

'Shut up and eat your KitKat,' Greg broke one of the fingers off and dipped it in his coffee while Mycroft watched in horror.

'You are a disgusting man Gregory Lestrade.'

'Not the first time you've said that,' and Greg took great pleasure watching Mycroft's expression as he licked the melted chocolate off the wafer.

Shaking his head, Mycroft ignored Greg and went back to his work. He took occasional sips of the horrible tea, but didn't look up again until long after Greg had finished his own coffee and the nurse had been around again, flashing her smile at Greg, who sat up a little straighter and made small talk about the weather and work and how rubbish night shifts could be.

The nurse, Kate, smiled and looked through her lashes at him, 'I dunno, they aren't all that bad sometimes.'

Greg watched her go, mostly because he knew it annoyed Mycroft. Although it was another fourteen minutes and eight seconds before Mycroft broke and said something. Greg knew because he had been timing it gleefully.

'You were flirting.'

'With who?'

'The nurse.'

'Was I?' Greg feigned innocence.

'You know you were,' Mycroft was talking to Greg, but his eyes were fixed firmly on the page in front of him, and when Mycroft signed his name a second or two later, Greg was willing to bet that the other man hadn't read a single word that was written on it.

Well, if Mycroft was going to play that game then Greg would too. He returned his attention to his phone, scrolling through the football results after a quick cursory glance at the news. This went on for several minutes until eventually Mycroft spoke again.

'It's not decent.'

'What isn't?' Greg asked casually, pretending that Mycroft only had half his attention because he knew that would annoy Mycroft.

'Flirting when I'm sitting here.'

'Why would it bother you?' it almost killed Greg not to look over.

Greg didn't expect Mycroft to answer, so he gave his phone his full attention, which is why he almost missed it when, several long minutes later Mycroft spoke again in a low, serious voice that was barely audible, even in the silence of the room.

'You know why.'

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry guys, i know i haven't updated for a couple of days but i tripped over the dog after a little too much cava and my arm is in a sling. turns out it's really hard to type with one hand, but bear with me. i'll get there.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which greg is angry, john is a dick and mycroft doesn't give a toss about national security.

Greg left early to change before work while Mycroft stayed on to work in Sherlock's room. Once upon a time Greg had been used to Mycroft's strange sleep patterns, but now they just seemed alien and unnatural to him. Greg hadn't slept well in the uncomfortable chair, and every time he woke during the night he snuck a glance at Mycroft, and always, always the man was awake. Sometimes he was reading files, sometimes he was typing on his laptop, and once, somewhere around 3am, Greg woke to find him on the phone speaking rapidly in what could have been Mandarin.

When the alarm on Greg's phone woke him, Mycroft was still at work. He had somehow commandeered a small coffee table, on which were stacked papers and his laptop. Mycroft himself had finally succumbed to comfort, or as close as he personally would get, and had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

Greg took a moment to watch him before he realised Greg was awake. He noted the little frown Mycroft wore when reading, and the way his eye lids flickered and his fingers twitched as he was working something out, almost as if the problem was physical, rather than mental. He'd seen Sherlock do it, of course, with much flamboyant hand gestures and panache. But Mycroft was quiet and precise and if you didn't know him, didn't know what you were looking for, you could miss it completely.

He'd always liked watching Mycroft when he was at work. Not that he'd got to do it very often. Back when they were together, Mycroft would sometimes bring work home with him over the weekend. Greg had never minded. Mycroft was always in the room, and clearly the man could pay attention to more than one thing at once because he was always fully part of the conversation, or commenting on the film they were watching while still being absorbed in his work. It would never be for long, half an hour at most, an hour once or twice, but only when there was a major international incident threatening, and on those occasions Greg really couldn't blame Mycroft for spending an hour working to prevent a nuclear war rather than watch a film with his boyfriend.

They didn't speak as Greg left, Mycroft only looking up to exchange nods. Greg met Anthea in the car park, immaculate despite being only 5.30am, she was carrying a stack of manilla folders and carrying a white bakery box. Greg felt better knowing that Anthea was on hand, and he found his face automatically relaxing into a smile as he approached her.

'Had a bit of lie in, did you?' he asked cheekily.

Anthea glared at him, but it was full of humour and affection. She tugged the top couple of files loose.

'These are for you.'

'Yay.' Greg sighed.

'Well, if you're going to be like that-'

'Please don't hurt me!' Greg backed off in mock fear, which only made Anthea roll her eyes.

'Would your team like Thai for lunch, Detective Inspector?'

Greg narrowed his eyes, 'Why are you being nice?'

'I'm always nice.'

'And?'

She smiled enigmatically, 'Are they still in the same room?'

'You know they are,' Greg took a moment to consider this brilliant, intelligent, amazing, beautiful woman who ran Mycroft's life, and so, by default, basically ran the country,and a large chunk of the world if truth be told. He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

'Thank you, Anthea.'

He went to work with a lighter heart and mind.

 

#

 

The first time Greg was scared by Mycroft was the day Sherlock jumped. He would never voice it, but the way Mycroft had just shut down had scared the shit out of him. Mycroft was not given to displays of emotion, and seeing him so broken on the floor like that was something Greg replayed in his mind for months.

The first time he was scared _of_ Mycroft was early in their relationship when Mycroft arrived late for dinner, his phone pressed to his ear and an expression of frustration on his face.

'Just shoot him the head. Even you can't miss from that distance.'

Greg's smile froze on his face when there was the clear and all too familiar sound of a gunshot from Mycroft's phone. Mycroft sighed again.

'Thank you,' he said to the person on the other end of the line, 'I always wondered what it would be like to be deaf.'

He hung up and sat down opposite Greg as if he hadn't just ordered someone to be killed.

'Apologies, Gregory.'

'Did...did you just order a hit?'

Mycroft waved his hand, 'Oh don't be so dramatic. Political assassination.'

'And that makes it better?'

'No, it makes it necessary.'

Mycroft was absorbed in the wine list and missed the look Greg gave him.

'You're a very scary man, Mycroft.'

'I know.'

And that was the thing about Mycroft, he was well aware of exactly how scary he was. He just didn't care enough to bother hiding it.

 

#

 

Greg was scared of Mycroft now. When Mycroft was powerless to do something it only seemed to make him more determined in every other area of his life. Greg had already witnessed him shouting down the phone at the Prime Minister and he was very sarcastic to Anthea, which was never a good idea.

And all the while Sherlock stayed unresponsive.

By unspoken agreement Mycroft and Greg started avoiding each other again, taking turns to sit with Sherlock, exchanging nods and the occasional word if they happened to pass each other in the corridors.

He went to see John after work the next day. John was on edge and seemed reluctant to let him in.

'You alright?' Greg asked.

John nodded, 'How is he?'

'Really bad. What happened?'

Shifting in his seat, John refused to look directly at Greg.

'I had to.'

'John?'

'I just couldn't...'

'Jesus, John. You didn't leave him?'

'He left me first.'

Greg stared at him.

'After what you went through? After what you watched me go through?'

'Don't be so judgemental.'

'You haven't had to look at him. He's shut down. Even Mycroft is worried.'

'First time for everything.'

'John,' Greg warned.

'Sorry,' John dropped his gaze, 'It's just...difficult.'

'I know, but you two were...John, have you really thought about this. I mean, I know there was Mary, but-'

'You taking my name in vain?' the woman herself chose that moment to come through the door and Greg could only stare at the very obvious dressing on her neck.

When the shock wore off he looked at John.

'You didn't?'

Mary smiled broadly, mistaking his shock, 'Oh, he did.'

'John,' Greg repeated, ignoring Mary, 'Look at me. Watson!'

John finally lifted his head, and for someone who'd just bonded he looked absolutely wretched. Greg pointed at him and stood to go.

'You're a complete dick head.'

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say a quick thank you - the comments have made me feel so much better. My arm seriously painful and the painkillers are just making me sick and drowsy. I'm still writing, just really, really slowly. Bear with me. And sorry for this chapter, but I had to do it. for some reason i woke up irrationally angry at Martin Freeman (no idea why, he's never done anything to me and I think he's lovely) and wanted to punish everyone. I settled for this. I'm starting to think that making creative decisions while on this many pain meds is a Very.Bad.Idea.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I couldn't just leave it there. It's almost 2am here and it's taken me hours to type this up. This chapter was initially very different, but I was asked to clarify the bonding a bit, so it seemed a good place to fit it in here. Hope it works. On the plus side, things are looking up for at least one of our couples. Sort of. On the horizon. Kinda.

Mycroft didn't look up as Greg walked into the room.

'You've been to see Dr Watson.'

'That's really scary when you do that, you know.'

'Did you punch him?'

Greg flexed his bruised hand, 'The door.'

'Was there a reason?'

'You wanna take a guess?'

'Not particularly.'

'I'm surprised you don't already know.'

'Despite your persistent beliefs, I am not omnipotent.'

Greg sat down beside Sherlock. The man in the bed was sleeping in his drug induced stage and it pulled at Greg's heart to see him like that. He was also aware that they were going to have a bugger of a time trying to get him off the medication. Addictive personality didn't come close to describing the man.

'John and Mary...' he trailed off, not able to say it. But he didn't need to. Mycroft understood.

'Does Sherlock know?'

'Look at the state of him. Of course he knows.' Greg snapped.

'I suppose it would explain the sudden spike in his heart rate during the night.'

'Whatever John said in that train carriage was just the start of it. He wouldn't have had time to prepare himself. And last night...He'd have felt everything,' Greg could have cried, 'Did they up his sedation again?'

'Yes. Quite considerably. It turns out that he has a rather higher tolerance than most people.'

'And your surprised by this?'

'Very little surprises me. I confess, however, that I'm rather surprised by Dr Watson. I thought he was a better man than that.'

'That's a little hypocritical, Myc.'

'With enough time, and more importantly, space, he should be fine.'

'We both know that's bollocks for a start. Don't look at me like that, Mycroft. You haven't felt it. I have. Twice. And what you did to me was just as bad as what John did to Sherlock.'

'And you're wife?'

'Low blow Mycroft. You know that was different. We both knew that was coming, and yeah, it hurt like a bitch, but not as much as getting hit with it all at once. And for someone as sensitive as him...shit.'

'My brother would remind you that he's a high functioning sociopath.'

'Is he bollocks! We both know he's not the Holmes family sociopath. He just thinks it makes him sound cool. I bet he always wanted to be like his big brother growing up.'

It was a low blow and Greg knew it.

'Sorry,' he said immediately, the tension draining from his shoulders, 'I'm just...'

'I understand.'

'I'm gonna get some coffee and let the doctors know. Kinda changes things a bit.'

Mycroft nodded, 'Thank you.'

'It's alright. Just...just don't have him killed or anything.'

'Gregory, I don't know where you get such ideas.'

'Experience. Now promise.'

'We're both aware that my promises don't mean terribly much.'

'True. But that would kill Sherlock, or he'd kill himself. For real this time. Still might, Mycroft. And we have to think about how we deal with him after this.'

'We?'

'Don't start. Just...tell me a really convincing lie so I'll be able to sleep tonight.'

'I shall think one up before you return.'

He probably would too. Greg was almost out the door when he heard Mycroft speak, his voice low and soft.

'I felt everything. You should know that.'

 

#

 

Greg booked the medical.

 

#

 

'What's wrong with Myc?'

'It's not my name.' sometimes Mycroft could be as much of a child as his brother. Greg found it surprisingly endearing.

'It kind of is.'

'It's part of my name. Some of us prefer not to shorten it.'

'You could be Mycie.'

'That's what my mother insists on.'

'Or Croft.'

'Jesus. Am I going to be forced to endure this conversation for the rest of the journey?'

'Probably.'

'Wonderful.'

'You're cute when you're being sarcastic.'

'You're annoying when you're being...annoying.'

'Oh. Sharp come back there, _Myc.'_

Mycroft returned to looking out the window as they passed through London.

'I think you hate Myc because it's too common. Hardly anyone must be called Mycroft.'

'It's certainly uncommon.'

'But you see, I happen to know that Sherlock's real name is William.'

'How on earth do you know that?'

'How many times do you think I've had to arrest your brother over the years. How many cavity searches I've had to sit through. Let me tell you that I know your brother in a very intimate way. But here's the thing, he clearly _chooses_ to be called that. So it makes me wonder if you don't have a more...common name too.'

'I can assure you that Mycroft is my name.'

'I'm sure it's part of it. But I bet it's something like Peter. Or Bill,' Greg smirked, 'I could find out, you know.'

'Why do I put up with you?'

'Because I'm amazing in bed. So, go on then.'

'No.'

Greg sighed theatrically, 'Croft it is then.'

'If you call me that again then I can assure you that....very bad things will happen.'

Greg just leaned over and nipped at Mycroft's ear, 'Promise?'

 

#

 

'Greg, can we talk?' John asked tentatively.

'I don't think that's a good idea yet.'

'Greg you have to understand.'

Setting down his pen, Greg sighed, 'Here's the thing, John. I get it. I really do. You thought he was dead. I know that. I stood beside you at his bloody funeral. And believe me, no one was happier than me when you moved on. Hell, I stood up for you when Mycroft wanted to get rid of Mary.'

'Jesus!'

'No, don't look at me like that. He didn't want to kill her or anything. He just didn't want you doing something stupid before Sherlock came back.'

'How long did Mycroft know he was alive?'

'The day after he jumped.'

'Why does it always have to be something dramatic with them?'

John's was clearly uncomfortable, his hands clenching and unclenching at his side.

'What's it like?' Greg asked.

'Strange. After the train it was hell. It was like he'd died all over again. But then with Mary it just sort of stopped feeling like that. Like it had just shifted.'

'Lucky you,' Greg couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice, 'He felt it. He knew it was coming too, that's why he went into that state.'

'Once upon a time he'd have just gotten high.'

'I think we're lucky he's bothering to breathe.'

'Is he really that bad?'

'Yeah. He's bad, John.'

'Can I see him?'

'I don't think that would be a good idea, do you?'

'He's my best friend.'

'John, the only way he is going to deal with this is if you don't see each other. You know that. Time and distance. Mycroft's going to try and get him on a chemical programme, but I'm not sure how good an idea that is with his history.'

'You made a decision about yourself yet?'

'Yeah.'

John didn't ask. Greg would tell him when he was ready.

 

#

 

Mycroft was back in his office for the afternoon. Molly had the day off and was going to sit with Sherlock for a while. Greg wasn't sure how good an idea that was, but it gave him an opportunity to speak with Mycroft away from the hospital.

He didn't bother knocking, just flicked a tight smile in Anthea's direction and opened the door to find Mycroft seated at his desk. Without bothering with a greeting, he sat down opposite him and just waited. When Mycroft didn't speak after a full minute, Greg sighed.

'I know you know.'

'Know what?'

'Because you know everything.'

'Gregory-'

'Stop it. Just say what you want to say.'

'You booked the chemical treatment.'

'I booked the pretreatment medical,' Greg corrected, 'I still haven't made any decisions. I can't say the idea of being on medication for the rest of my life fills me with joy. I thought that, perhaps if I could suppress it, even for a while, that I could maybe figure out if it's something I really want.'

'This is because of Sherlock.'

'In part, yeah. I'll be honest, Mycroft, he's scaring the shit out of me right now. And what really scares me is how easily that could have been me laying there in a similar state. I need to work this out, find out if I can trust you again.'

'I do want this.'

'Yeah well, you're about two years too late to be announcing that. You put me through utter hell. And no, don't. I know your reasons. But I need to be sure that you aren't going to do that again, because I really can't...I just can't. So...yeah.'

'I understand.' and Greg knew that he really did.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tiny little chapter for today. But check out our boys sorting their crap.
> 
> And please let me tell you all how the response to this has meant so much. You guys are absolutely lovely and have been impossibly kind. And I can't tell you how much I LOVED the way the comments went from 'Oh this is so sad' to 'Go fuck yourself John' in such a short space of time. Makes me think I'm doing something right. Thank you all. C

Greg and Mycroft had been together for four months when Greg received a call to come to Mycroft's house urgently. When he arrived he let himself in and called for the other man. He found him in the bath, struggling to get himself upright using only one arm and clearly in pain.

'What have you done?' Greg asked, moving forward, already reaching for a towel.

'I'm stuck. I was able to get in, but getting out is proving tricky, and there are just some things that Anthea shouldn't have to see.'

'So you called me? I'm...touched?'

'If you're going to be -'

'I'm sorry,' Greg reached for him, 'What did you do to yourself.'

'I injured my shoulder.'

'How?' Greg asked, suspicious of Mycroft's hesitance. They'd been together long enough that he could spot when Mycroft was holding something back from him.

'I fell,' Mycroft admitted, grunting as Greg dragged him upwards to his feet.

Greg laughed, 'Were you drunk?'

'Do I look like someone who falls over drunk?'

'You look an awful lot like someone stuck in their own bath.'

Mycroft glared at him, 'There may have been some brandy involved.'

'You fell over drunk,' Greg was laughing openly, mostly at Mycroft's face as he struggled to step out of the bath, 'Do you need me to dry you?'

'I'm sure I can manage.'

'Like you managed to get out of the bath.'

'It's not as though I've asked you to carry me down the stairs while singing romantic songs to me.'

'Yeah, there are some limits, Mycroft,' Greg ignored the man's protests and towelled his hair dry for him, 'And carrying your boyfriend naked down the stairs is one such limit.'

Mycroft glanced over at him then, 'Boyfriend?'

Greg sighed and steered Mycroft towards the bedroom, 'Apparently.'

 

#

 

Gregory's medical was two days after he booked it. Speed was obviously paramount. He hadn't told Mycroft when it was, but Mycroft knew. If he'd wanted to, he could have had the results on his desk moments after Gregory got them. But he waited until Gregory came to visit Sherlock later that night. He didn't realise how nervous he was until Gregory was walking in, eyes tired and coat flung over his arm.

'Any change?' he asked before Mycroft had a chance to speak.

'No.'

Mycroft closed his laptop and gave Gregory his full attention, aware that whatever conversation they had was important, and how he reacted to what Gregory told him would potentially impact where they went from there.

'Do you know?' Gregory asked.

'No.'

'Are you telling the truth?'

'Gregory!'

'Okay.'

Mycroft waited for the other man to speak, but it quickly became clear that Gregory was done with that particular topic and Mycroft knew not to push it. He'd have no right to, and he was painfully aware of that.

'So,' Gregory said after a while, 'Are you free for lunch tomorrow?'

Trying not to show his surprise, Mycroft nodded, 'I am.'

'Good. So we'll start with that, then.'

 

#

 

Greg could see how much Mycroft was reining himself in. He wanted to ask what had happened. But they both knew he wouldn't. Greg thought briefly that perhaps he was being unfair to Mycroft, but after all Mycroft put him through Greg just couldn't resist keeping him on edge. He was actually certain that Mycroft wouldn't go behind his back to find out, not this time. And that made sort of proud of the man.

So Greg didn't tell him what happened at the medical, and he didn't tell him that he'd had the first course of medication that afternoon. Instead he'd just asked Mycroft to lunch and revelled in the man's obvious pleasure. Maybe they could work it out. Given time.

 

#

 

Greg's content and determined mood lasted only until his system registered what was being done to it, and his stomach rebelled. He spent most of the evening kneeling over the toilet, heaving until his stomach ached and his hands shook.

Yeah, he thought bitterly, this was going to be hilarious fun.

 


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which progress is made.

John had told Mary about Sherlock when they first started getting serious. It was a difficult topic and brought a new slant to the relationship. John was all too aware how some people still viewed the previously bonded. They would never fully get over a previous bond, and there was always the knowledge that someone else had been there first, been their chosen one first. That was a lot to ask someone to take on.

He hadn't told Mary much about their relationship, or how it came about. And he had skipped completely over how Sherlock had gone about things, mentioning just that he had killed himself. Mary hadn't asked, she'd just stroked John's face and whispered, 'How could he leave _you?'_

That was a question John had asked himself every day since Sherlock stepped off that roof.

He'd wanted nothing more than to grab hold of Sherlock and make him explain why he did it. But standing opposite him in that train carriage, he realised he just wasn't ready to hear. He didn't want to find out what reason was more important to Sherlock than John was.

He was happy. He loved Mary, and he needed the security she offered that Sherlock never could. He'd been excited running around with Sherlock, but he was exhausted. He needed something else. Sherlock had broken his heart that day. And three days ago John broke it over again all by himself.

 

#

 

As he got dressed the following morning, Mycroft felt something he hadn't felt in a long time. Fear. Anticipation. Excitement. It was how he'd felt the day Gregory burst into his office after his return from Baskerville. For a moment he honestly thought the man was going to attack him. Instead he had practically dragged him out to dinner and some rather creative sex on the floor of his flat.

Gregory surprised him, and he both liked and feared that. How it made him feel.

Which was part of the problem. He just hadn't been prepared for that and it had taken over two years and seeing his brother comatose with grief before he had realised what he was doing to them.

So now there was the fear. The fear that he'd fucked everything up so badly that he wasn't going to get a second chance. The subtle shift in the balance of power was evident. As two alphas they had both struggled for control of every situation. Sometimes he won, sometimes Gregory won. Over time the minor victories had balanced out. That was before Mycroft had rejected Gregory. He had been the one in control then, and Gregory was just too broken to wrestle it back. Now it was Gregory that was very firmly in control of the situation, and as much as Mycroft could challenge him, he knew that he had to let Gregory have this, and forcing it would only push him away.

Everything was so fragile it could shatter at any moment, and if that happened it could be either him or Gregory laying where Sherlock was, giving up.

So, Mycroft dressed with care, chosing a dark suit Gregory had always liked and tried to remain outwardly calm.

 

#

 

For once Gregory was on time and not running five minutes late for everything. He was already seated when Mycroft arrived, and he didn't stand to greet him, but he did smile a tired, but genuine smile.

'You look well,' he said.

'Thank you,' Mycroft slid into the seat opposite and studied Gregory while the other man scoured the menu. He was exhausted, clearly didn't get enough sleep the previous night, and the worry over Sherlock was taking it's toll. But there was something else, a soft edge to him, to his scent that didn't belong to him and that Mycroft couldn't quite place. It was like the man was just slightly out of focus. Like other people.

Mycroft suspected what that meant, and he swallowed his disappointment, making an effort to be bright.

'The salmon sounds delightful.'

 

#

 

They left together, Mycroft offering Gregory a lift back to work, and tried not to be disappointed when the man declined.

'I've got the car.'

There was an awkward pause as they stood together on the footpath, trying to stay out of the way of pedestrians, neither of them quite looking at the other. It rather reminded Mycroft of the first time he had kissed Gregory as they stood outside a restaurant much like the one they had just left. Clearly the memory was clear for Gregory too, for the man was slightly redder in the cheeks than normal, and he lifted his head with something almost like shyness, and when he smiled at him again if it wasn't for the haunted emptiness in his eyes, it would almost be like old time.

'I'm glad we did this.' Greg said softly.

Mycroft could only incline his head, wary of giving too much away, scaring the other man off. Conversation had retained the rather formal quality it had contained of late, but it had flowed easily enough, and when they caught the other's eye they had both smiled.

'I'll see you after work.'

'You will?' Mycroft asked.

'Hospital, remember?'

Mycroft felt his mood darken, knowing what they would be facing later that day. But then Greg surprised him by reaching and gently squeezing his arm.

'Later.'

And then he was gone, striding down the footpath as Mycroft's sleek car drew up.

 

#

 

'I have to show you something before we do this,' Mycroft was anxious when Greg arrived.

'In a hospital? Mycroft!'

But Mycroft wasn't amused, 'This is serious business.'

'I know. Why do you think I'm here?'

'Sentiment?' Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

'Fuck you,' Greg dropped down into a chair, exhausted and feeling sick again. If Mycroft noticed then he didn't say.

'It's about Sherlock.'

'They're still going to bring him around? We agreed.'

'No, that's still the plan.' Mycroft had flinched a little at the use of 'we' and it made Greg smile slightly.

'So what's wrong?'

'It's about Sherlock's time...away. I wanted to discuss it with you before he woke up,' Mycroft held him out one of his endless manilla folders and Greg took it carefully, 'He was injured during his mission.'

Greg looked down at the folder in his hands, 'Do I want to look in this?'

'Possibly not, and I'll understand if you don't. But I thought you might pass it to Dr Watson.'

'Why can't you do it?'

Mycroft's face twitched into a twisted smile, 'Because I promised you I wouldn't kill him.'

Greg almost laughed, and would have if it wasn't for the severity of the information he was holding.

'How bad is it?'

'Bad. It's a documentation of his injuries.'

His hands moved without his knowledge and he opened the folder, looking down at a photograph of someone's back, crossed with knotted scars that looked like...

'Mycroft,' Greg's voice was impossibly small and he thought he was going to be sick there and then, 'This is torture.'

'Yes.'

'And this is what his back looks like?'

'Yes. There are other injuries too, less significant, but there none the less.'

'And this is definitely him?'

'I was there.'

The world stopped.

Mycroft dropped his head for a second as if expecting a blow, but when none came he looked up into the stricken face of Greg and spoke again.

'I was in the room when it happened. Playing along was the only way to get him out of there alive.'

'Why didn't you tell me this before?'

'Because you would have looked at me like that.'

'And so why are you telling me now?'

'Because you deserved to know what sort of person I am.'

'Jesus, Myc. This is...you watched your own brother being tortured? Get these!'

Mycroft met Greg's demanding gaze, 'Believe me, I've done worse.'

 

#

 

Mycroft was nothing if not efficient, and Sherlock was already on his way to waking up before Greg had fully processed the information he'd been given. Doctors were fussing around, taking blood samples and preparing Sherlock as best as possible for the next course of drugs when Greg had a stab of conscience and squeezed Mycroft's shoulder.

'We are doing the right thing, you know.'

Mycroft didn't look away from his brother, 'Are you sure? We spent years trying to get him clean and now we're not even giving him a choice.'

'He's in no state to get a choice, Myc. And you know as well as I do that if he walks out of here he'll walk straight to the nearest dealer and likely end up a crime scene. This'll take the edge off until he's able to decide for himself.'

Mycroft nodded, and Greg could feel him reassured.

'Look, you stay here. I have something I need to do very quickly.'

'You're leaving?' Mycroft was panicked.

'I'll be back before he comes around.'

Mycroft could only nod as Greg strode from the room. It was ten minutes before Mycroft realised the folder had gone with him.

 

#

 

Greg threw the folder down in front of John.

'Sherlock's case file,' he said by way of explanation, 'It has all the information about what he was doing.'

John didn't touch the file, instead he pressed his lips together and made a soft noise, 'Have you read it?'

He looked terrible and Greg almost felt sorry for him, but then he remembered the state Sherlock was in back at the hospital, 'I have. And let me assure you, it wasn't a bloody holiday.'

John swallowed, didn't say anything. Greg wanted nothing more to get back to the hospital where he was needed.

'And this is explains everything?' John asked at the same time as Greg became away of Mary lurking in the background. He liked Mary, but her scent on John was just _wrong._ But betas tended to put him on edge, being neither one thing nor the other. Dominant and subservient at the same time. They fitted in everywhere and nowhere. He pointed at the table.

'That'll explain what he was doing. And why you need to keep the fuck away from him.'

 


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how I'm keeping up with this at the moment, but the reaction had kept me going, and I love that you guys are actually giving me suggestions - you have no idea the major feels that gives me. Thank you. I hope I do you justice.

Sherlock on drugs was always an unpleasant sight. The man who was so elegant and graceful with no effort at all, suddenly became someone else entirely. He was uneven, unbalanced, unstable. It was like watching a fawn trying to take it's first steps. There was the trace of the elegance there, but it was a long way off.

He was a man who was always full of energy, energy that he sometimes channelled into complete stillness that was occasionally frightening to behold.

But as the sedatives wore off and his own nervous energy combined with the new drugs being pumped into him, Sherlock became twitchy and restless, his movements tight and jerky as if he was still figuring out how his body worked.

Mycroft was watching through the glass of the door as three doctors wrestled with him when Greg arrived, running up the corridor towards him.

'I'm so sorry,' he panted,'Traffic was a nightmare.'

'You should have called Anthea, she'd have got you a police escort.'

' _I_ could have gotten a police escort.'

Mycroft blinked as though he was only just realising who Greg was, 'Yes, I suppose you could.'

Greg hated seeing him distressed and he automatically leaned closer to him, knowing that while Mycroft's scent was dulled to him at the moment, his would still be a slight comfort to the other man. When Mycroft took several deep breaths in a row Greg knew he was right.

'How bad has he been?'

'He kicked me in the mouth.'

Greg's snort was loud.

'I'm glad you are amused.'

'Well, there have been times I've wanted to kick you in the mouth.'

'Punching me in the face wasn't enough?'

Greg shrugged, 'You kinda deserved it.'

Mycroft said nothing and they continued to look through the window.

'What'll happen now?'

'Now we wait and see what happens.'

'We may have to tie him down you know.'

'If you think that will stop him then you are very much mistaken.'

Greg tilted his head to one side as he watched a doctor struggle to reinsert the IV that Sherlock had ripped out.

'Is it better or worse that he's not just laying there like before.'

'Depends on your point of view,' Mycroft said.

Sherlock started to settle down a little, and Greg wondered how much they'd had to give him to take the edge off. Then the doctors filed out one by one, and with the second swing of the door he could plainly hear Sherlock's voice.

'John. I want _John!'_

Mycroft's fingers reached for his seemingly automatically and as they threaded through the DI's, Greg gave them a gentle squeeze.

'Come on,' he said, reaching for the door.

 

#

 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as the two men entered and he sighed loudly and turned his face away.

'So we're back to this are we?' his voice was full of contempt.

'Fuck you,' Greg sat down on the window sill and tried to look stern, 'And if I hear about you kicking your brother again then I'll make sure you never get access to another crime scene.'

'I don't want to solve crimes any more.'

'Oh really?' well, this should be good, 'So what do you want to do instead?'

'Beekeeping.'

Greg and Mycroft exchanged glances.

'Right, well, until you run off into the sunset in your little white suit, let's talk about how we're going to deal with this.'

Sherlock's jaw clenched.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft tried, his voice surprisingly soft.

'Go away.'

'Sherlock!' Greg warned.

And Sherlock suddenly sprung into action, 'I don't want you!' he shouted as he flailed, trying to get off the bed, pulling at the drip in his arm. But as suddenly as he moved he stilled again, laying down 'I want John.'

His voice was so sad that Greg had to turn his face away for a moment.

 

#

 

Unfortunately the world didn't stop because Sherlock Holmes was having a breakdown. Mycroft had no choice but to return home that night in order to prepare for the next day, and somehow Greg found himself going with him. He was worried about the man, as much as he tried not to be, and he didn't want to leave him alone with his own thoughts for too long, especially after the scene as they were leaving the hospital.

Sherlock had finally fallen asleep and Mycroft had three discreetly armed guards watching over his brother for the night.

'If you see John Watson you shoot him on sight,' Mycroft caught the look Greg gave him, and amended, 'In the leg.'

Greg steered Mycroft through his house, depositing him into an expensive armchair before heading to the sideboard and pouring the man a very large brandy, which Mycroft took with a shaking hand.

'You know I don't drink brandy anymore.'

'Yeah well, just try not to fall over because I intend to have a rather large amount myself and I will not be taking you to hospital.'

'I can assure you that I will not be requiring hospital.'

'And I'll not be hauling your naked ass out of the bath again.'

There was silence in the room for a second and then Mycroft spoke, more softly than he normally managed, a tone that he never let other people hear, reserved, once upon a time, for just Sherlock and Greg.

'Thank you for all you've done for Sherlock.'

'What else would I have done?'

'You could have done the same as Dr Watson and wiped your hands of him.'

'Yeah,' Greg said awkwardly, settling into his own seat, 'I've thought about it a few times. But he sort of grows on you after a while.'

'That's not what most people say.'

'Well, he does tend to piss people off.'

Greg watched Mycroft sip his brandy.

'You've spent your life looking out for him, haven't you?'

'I'm not sure what you mean.'

'Greg laughed, 'Yes you are. You the alpha older brother looking after the little omega. I bet he worshipped you.'

'If he did then I certainly didn't notice.'

'Yes you did. You looked out for him. You forget, you tried to bribe a police officer to look out for him.'

'That was-'

'And you tried to bribe John. And god knows who else.'

'There may have been one or two unsavoury characters in the past.'

'And how many took the money?'

'Everyone except John,' Mycroft looked at Greg over the top of his glass, 'Of course you were the only one who brought it back.'

Greg got up to pour them both another drink, 'I felt a bit like a drug dealer wandering around with that amount of money in my pocket.'

'Yes, it can be a rather heady experience.'

'Says the man who knows the codes for the missiles.'

Mycroft held out his glass and Greg refilled it, 'I think you grossly overestimate my reach.'

'Oh, I don't think so,' Greg winked.

'Why do you persist in believing that I rule the world?'

'I never said the world,' Greg put the decanter back down and leaned over the back of Mycroft's chair so he was looking at the man upside down, 'But Britain at the very least.'

'You look ridiculous like that.'

'I look adorable.'

'Are you flirting with me?'

Immediately Mycroft realised it was the wrong thing to say. Greg sighed and straightened up again, walking around the side of the chair to sit back down in his own seat.

'Apparently I am. Sorry.'

'Don't apologise, please.'

They stared at each other for a long time until Greg shook his head, laughing softly into his glass, 'We are really messed up.'

Mycroft turned his head away, focusing on the window, and only looked up again when he heard Greg stand.

'I think I should go.'

'You don't have to.'

'I think I do.'

Mycroft stood to see him out, and neither man spoke until they reached the door and Greg turned. Mycroft had been right behind him and hadn't expected Greg to turn so suddenly. They found themselves standing too close. Mycroft immediately backed up a step, trying to ignore the way his heart sped up slightly. Greg reached and took hold of his arms, pulling him back to where he was with a smile.

'I've had bits of you inside me. You can stand close.'

'I didn't want to pu-'

'It's just standing,' Greg said, and then he reached up with one hand and cupped Mycroft's face for a split second, 'I'll see you tomorrow.'

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little end note - someone asked what all the words mean - sorry, i missed that comment earlier. I've included a list below and will update at the end of chapters when I do it again. I am so sorry, I should have done it before now.
> 
> Mamihlapinatapai- it's a term used to describe the situation where two people both want something to happen but neither of them wants to be the one to start it
> 
> Floccinaucinihilipilification- assessing something to have no value or worth
> 
> Truculence - Showing or expressing bitter opposition or hostility; aggressively defiant
> 
> Extirpation - removing a species from it's location often with violence
> 
> Omphaloskepsis - navel gazing
> 
> tergiversationary - to repeatedly change your attitude or opions on a particular subject
> 
> Adoxography - to write in a fine and detailed way on a useless subject
> 
> It's maybe silly,but it just seemed like the sort of game Anthea would play.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay, a bit of a trigger warning that this gets a bit sexually intense in terms of the dominance issue. Don't worry, it's not bad, but the alphas are coming out for battle. please bear with me. it gets better. i promise.

It was three days before John Watson opened the folder. It remained sitting where Greg had left it on the coffee table, a constant presence in his life, a reminder that there were still demons he hadn't confronted. He still didn't know the full story. He waited until he was alone in the flat and then pulled it towards him, bracing himself for whatever was contained inside it.

The first page almost made him drop it again. It was a picture of a back, Sherlock's back, mangled beyond recognition by a cross crossing of deep wounds that would scar badly, even with the best treatment in the word.

He read on, tears stinging his eyes as words like 'captive' and 'torture' and most frightening of all 'gun shot wound' passed in front of his eyes. There were picture after picture, some clearly older than others. X rays from the last week which showed skull fractures and broken ribs. By the time he came to the reports from various anonymous agents detailing certain events, where Sherlock had been found, beaten and bloody, the extent of what the man went through had John crying openly.

The last page of the file was a report by Anthea on behalf of Mycroft, John read it through four times until he knew it by heart. He was still holding it hours later when Mary came home and found him shaking uncontrollably on the sofa, surrounded by pages and pages outlining his mistake.

 

#

 

Mycroft had tasked Anthea with writing the report for John. He just couldn't bring himself to do it. In her usual curt style Anthea outlined everything in just a few simple lines that were more effective than anything Mycroft could have come up with himself.

 

_Lives of individuals, including Dr J. Watson, threatened unless S. Holmes died instead. Deemed necessary to fake death. S. Holmes subsequently tracked down all enemy agents and removed threat fully and permanently._

 

_A_

 

She'd marked it as Top Secret.

 

#

 

'Greg,' John was waiting for him as he left the office.

'Not yet John.' Greg walked past him towards the car park.

'Please.'

'No. I'm...I'm not ready to talk to you yet.'

'I thought we were friends!'

Greg stopped, but didn't turn around to face him,'We are.'

'But-'

'Not yet.'

'I need to see him.'

At that Greg did turn, his face screwed in anger and for a moment John braced himself for the impact of a fist. But Greg just pointed up into his face.

'You,' he growled, 'Do _not_ get to see him. Not now. Not ever. Do you understand that?'

'I need to explain to-'

'NO!' Greg backed off a step after his shout, but only a step, he dropped his voice to a hiss, 'Let me make this perfectly clear, if you try to go near him you won't get within a hundred feet. There are armed guards with him who are under Mycroft's orders to shoot you on sight.'

John rolled his eyes at Mycroft's dramatics, 'Oh come on!'

'Trust me John, you don't know him like I do. I have seen him order an assassination over dinner, coordinate missile strikes while running a bath. You think you are above that? You're the _reason_ Sherlock did what he did. Oh, they'll tell you that it was because of the rest of us, butlet me tell you this, he might have been uspet if someone put a bullet in my head, or maybe not, who knows what goes on in his mind. But believe me when I say that YOU were the only one he actually gave a shit about. You were the one he came back for and you were the one who left him broken and alone. So don't you underestimate Mycroft. Because you have absolutely no idea what that man is capable of and what he will do for his brother.'

John had visibly paled, but Greg was unrelentless.

'So you think about that. You think about what you did and you work out how you are going to live with it.'

'I didn't know-'

'But you stay away from him. I mean it John, maybe one day we'll be fine again, but I'm telling you this, if I hear about you trying to contact him, you won't have to wait for Mycroft.'

Greg turned then and left the smaller man alone in the street, shaking and struggling to breathe. He was halfway to the car park when he heard John's voice.

'I made a mistake.'

Greg paused for a second to say, 'We all did.'

 

#

 

Mycroft was taking a book from a shelf when Gregory stormed into his office, grabbed him hard and shoved him against the wall, lips were on his before he could fully register what was happening, rough and hungry. Hand pulled at his his clothing and Mycroft groaned, clutching Gregory closer to him. It had been a long time since he'd been kissed with such heat and urgency, and he was hard in seconds, his body reacting automatically to the scent and feel of Gregory pressed hard against him.

They were both so lost in what they were doing that they never noticed Anthea leave the room with an armful of paperwork and a muttering of, 'For fuck sake.'

The door had barely closed when Greg pulled back, face flushed and eyes dark with lust.

'Gregory-' Mycroft managed, but he got no further before Gregory was kissing him again, hands sliding over every inch of Mycroft's body he could reach, and then suddenly they were behind Mycroft, dragging him around to face the wall, and Mycroft felt Gregory's breath hot on the back of his neck, and when he spoke his voice was low in Mycroft's ear, his body pinning Mycroft in place.

'This is what it's all about with you, isn't it? The power struggle.'

Mycroft could feel Gregory's erection hard against him and he was torn between desire and that slight panic that always arose when someone was behind him like that.

'Do you have any idea how often I have wanted to just shove you against something and take you like this? But I don't. And you don't either,' There was nothing threatening in Gregory's tone, 'But I know you've thought about it. I've _seen_ you look.' Mycroft swallowed, he had thought about it a lot. Still thought about it, 'But we don't, because only omegas do that, and it's _weak._ Right? Genetic. But two alpahs, well there's no compromise is there? Ever. It's a constant battle because we don't quite fit like we're supposed to. But here's the thing Mycroft, I am sick of playing these fucking games with you. So here's how it is, I will take the bedroom battles, the stupid arguments, I'll take you just as you are. But if you ever, ever do what you did, if you ever do what John did, I will kill you myself.'

'Gregory!' Mycroft gasped, still processing what Gregory was saying.

'And don't think for one second that you are the only person I have threatened to kill today. So you think about it, you think about what you want and you decide if you are able to commit to this. To me. Properly and forever. Because if you aren't then you need to just fuck off again because I can't be around you. So if we do this it's all or it's nothing. No one gets to make mistakes any more.'

And with that he pushed off Mycroft and was out the door before the other man came to his senses enough to turn around. Mycroft ran the whole exchange back through his mind once more. Something had clearly upset Greg and triggered that reaction, and Mycroft wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing, but either way it was all laid bare now.

And Mycroft didn't think he had ever been so turned on in his life.

 


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small, slightly fluffy, mostly flashback and Anthea before we start to look at John and Sherlock a little more closely in the next bit. And how DO you solve a problem like Mary????? :o)
> 
> And four updates in one day......!

Greg sat in silence as his shoulder was stitched back together by the pretty doctor. Mycroft was watching from the door way, a rather smug expression on his face.

'Alright,' Greg sighed, 'Just say what you are going to say and get it over with.'

'I wasn't going to say anything.'

'Yes you were. So I'll say it, you were right and I was wrong. The conservatory roof won't support the weight of a full grown man.'

Mycroft smiled quietly, but didn't say anything.

On the other side of the room Gregory glowered.

 

#

 

'I don't want to go by myself.' Gregory pouted.

'Well, I don't want to go at all,' Mycroft shot back, not lifting his eyes from the paper.

'I've already told everyone about my very sexy boyfriend,' Gregory laid on his most seductive voice.

'And they will be initially wary because they have met my brother, and then they will be intimidated, and then cold and judgemental and you will feel it most because you actually care about what they think.'

'Myc, I work with these people every day.'

'So why would you want to socialise with them too?'

'It's polite.'

'Fine. Ten minutes and then I shall have Anthea call with an emergency which will require my attention.'

'Fair enough.'

 

#

 

Mycroft Holmes had been sitting in Philip Anderson's living room for five hours making small talk with small people and completely unaware that Anthea was enjoying a weekend at a spa which had been a surprise gift from Gregory Lestrade.

 

#

 

Sherlock was reacting better to the medication than Greg. He hadn't thrown up once and his heart rate remained down. They didn't talk about John.

They didn't talk about very much.

Greg had presented him with copies of all his test data from the time when he was sedated, and Sherlock had demanded pens and a calculator and spent the whole day pouring over them. Greg hadn't the heart to disturb him, so he just sat and watched until Sherlock crashed somewhere around teatime, just before Mycroft came to relieve Greg for a while.

The two men looked at each other and then looked at Sherlock asleep.

'Myc,' Greg began, 'Look, I was out of order and angry and-'

'It's fine.' Mycroft peeled off his coat and lay it carefully over the back of chair.

'It's really not. I was angry at something and I took it out on you.'

'Gregory, it's fine.' Mycroft tentatively laid his arm on Greg's shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. Before he could remove it, Greg covered it with his own for a moment, running his thumb lightly across the back of Mycroft's hand.

'All,' Mycroft said, tightening his grip.

Greg closed his eyes and covered Mycoft's hand entirely with his own. He didn't say anything, but after a moment he lifted Mycroft's hand and pulled it towards him kissing it lightly, and never taking his eyes off the sleeping figure before them.

 

#

 

Anthea had taken to leaving draft copies of her resignation letter around the office. The first time Mycroft came across one it was during a meeting with the Swiss Ambassador. He turned a page in his file and instead of the financial forecast he was expecting he found the short note in there instead. By the time he found the third one he was having heart palpitations every time he spotted a sheet of the heavy cream paper Anthea used to write formal correspondence.

By the fifth one the man was a nervous wreck and Greg had to intervene. He chose his moment carefully, at a time when he knew Mycroft would be out of the office.

'Anthea,' he said casually, leaning against her desk, 'Are you blackmailing my boyfriend to get a pay rise?'

'Yes.'

Greg grinned, 'That's my girl. Out of curiosity, how much do you earn now?'

'I believe I've just passed the Prime Minister.'

Greg nodded his approval, 'You're a dangerous woman.'

'Perhaps.'

'And one day you are going to run this country.'

'Certainly.'

 

#

 

The email came from John in the early hours of the morning. Greg sighed and leaned back in his seat as he read it. The man certainly was a persistent little fucker.

 

_If I can't see him, can you explain?_

 

And ten minutes later another.

 

_Please. He needs to know._

 

It took all of Greg's strength not to type a response along the lines of 'Should have thought of that.' But he'd promised Mycroft to let Anthea deal with John Watson. Whatever that meant. 'Dealing with' had several meanings in Mycroft's world, and not all of them were good.

Speaking of Mycroft...the man had messaged him with a single word – 'dinner?' and Greg had spent a long time looking at his phone, thinking about that and all it meant.

Things were shaky. Tentative. Mycroft was careful when they met, cautious. But they touched more. Small, brief touched that didn't mean anything, and were barely noticed by anyone else at all. But which were full of reassurance to them. It wasn't touching for comfort. It was brief, glancing touches just to remind themselves that they were still allowed to.

Greg's phone sounded and he left the room to answer it, not wanting to disturb Sherlock when he was resting. As he passed Mycroft he ran a hand along the back of Mycroft's neck, giving it the mos gentle of squeezes before he left the room. And despite all the physical interaction they had shared before, that gentle, absent touch was one of the most intimate things they had shared, and for the first time Mycroft really understood that.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our boys come out. So to speak....

'Please don't hang up!'

Greg shut the door of Sherlock's room and walked down the corridor so he would be out of earshot of Sherlock, cursing himself that he hadn't looked at the name on the screen before he answered.

'John, I warned you.'

'I know. I just need to know how he is. Please.'

Greg leaned against the wall and thought about what he could, or should tell John.

'Are you still there?'

'Yes, John, I'm still here.'

'Please,' John repeated.

'What do you want me to say?'

'Anything. Just tell me he's okay.'

'Of course he's not okay!' Greg snapped, 'You _know_ he's not okay. Is that what you want? You want me to lie so you feel better about yourself?'

'No. I just-'

'Look, I have to get back.'

'You're with him?'

'Yeah. So's Mycroft.'

'Oh,' there was a pause before John spoke again, 'So, you're...?'

'John, I have to go.'

John started to say something else, but Greg hung up. He hesitated for a second and then sent a text to Anthea.

 

_JW called me. Can you deal? - G_

 

_#_

 

_Yes. Wit_ _h_ _**lamprophony.** _

 

#

 

Before he went back into the room, he took a moment to look through the window at the brothers. Sherlock was still asleep, curled on his side, hair like a cloud around him. He looked so much younger when he was asleep. And selfishly Greg almost preferred it because then he couldn't see the pain in the younger man's eyes. As he watched Mycroft smoothed the sheet on the bed slightly before leaning back into his seat. Then he sat up straighter and tilted his head as he sensed Greg had come back.

Greg opened the door as Mycroft turned to look at him. Mycroft frowned.

'Dr Watson?'

'Yeah.'

'Hmm.'

'What?'

'Perhaps small, regular updates would be appropriate.'

Greg stared, 'You think he deserves that?'

Mycroft turned his attention back to Sherlock, 'Possibly not. But when...when I...did what I did, well, I can relate to Dr Watson in a way.'

'You checked up on me?'

Mycroft didn't answer straight away, but his cheeks coloured slightly and he refused to look at Greg.

'Mycroft?' Greg prompted.

When Mycroft answered his tone was sharp, but Greg wasn't fooled, he knew that Mycroft was trying to cover his embarrassment.

'Of course. I couldn't have you running around getting yourself into trouble, disrupting all of London.'

'And how often did do you do it?'

Mycroft flushed even darker.

'You were followed at all times.'

'For how long?'

Until...um...about an hour ago.'

'You had me followed everywhere? For two years?' Mycroft's lack of response was answer enough. Greg felt a small surge of warmth towards the man, and he bent down and kissed him softly on the top of his head, murmuring into his hair, 'You are an amazing man.'

He straightened up again and moved to sit on the other chair.

'But, Myc?'

'Hm?'

'It is kinda creepy.'

 

#

 

John read the email again just to make sure he understood what Anthea was telling him. Apparently Mycroft would allow small updates on the condition that John does not try to contact Greg or himself, and he was to stay away from Sherlock.

He wondered what Mycroft thought of as 'small' and how often 'periodic' was. But mostly he wondered when he would get the first one. He chewed on his lip as he thought about what Mary would think of it all.

Mary.

His heart gave a little lurch as he thought of her. He did love her. She was his mate now. But for the last few days he had been asking himself how much of that emotion was based on his belief that Sherlock was dead. A treacherous little voice in his mind kept asking if he would have even looked twice at her if he'd known Sherlock was alive. And he'd done it when he was angry. He'd bonded before he knew the truth,and now he was so caught up in the attachment that bond brought that he was no longer sure which emotions were real, and who for.

He closed the laptop lid and then his eyes, lost for an answer and wishing he had someone to talk it over with.

 

_**#** _

 

**Greg was woken from his sleep by a text from Anthea.**

 

_**Remain calm.** _

 

**He immediately phoned Mycroft, who he knew was still at the hospital.**

**'What's happened? Is he okay? Myc?'**

**'Oh, yes. Yes. Fine. But...um...'**

**'Mycie? Who are you talking to?'**

**Mycroft cleared his throat, 'Perhaps it would be better if we met in person to discuss the issue.'**

**'Mycroft,' Greg lowered his voice, 'Has something happened.'**

**'In a manner of speaking.'**

**'Can you talk?'**

**'Not at the moment.'**

**'Enemy?'**

**'Not as such.'**

**'Do you need back up?'**

**Mycroft gave a small laugh, 'Not quite. Shall we say half an hour?'**

**Greg was already halfway to the door, 'On my way.'**

 

_#_

 

Mycroft was waiting outside, looking mildly anxious and smoking. Not a good sign.

'Alright, tell me,' Greg was saying before he was even out of the taxi.

Mycroft looked both relieved and worried to see him. He stamped out his cigarette and took a deep breath.

'There's a bit of a situation.'

'Is Sherlock okay.'

'In as much as he can be,' Mycroft waved his hand, 'No, it's something else I wasn't expecting. Not yet at least.'

'Mycroft!'

Mycroft looked directly at him, his expression unreadable, 'My parents are upstairs.'

'So?'

'Well...'

'Mycroft if you don't tell me what's wrong right now I will...I don't know what I'll do, but it won't be nice.'

'They don't know about John.'

'Oh.'

'...or you.'

Greg suddenly longed for a cigarette himself.

'I wasn't sure what to tell them,' Mycroft went on, not looking at Greg, 'Obviously with John there are simply the facts, but with you...I didn't...I don't know where...' he frowned, took a deep breath and seemed to pull himself together a little more, 'I didn't want to spring them on you, and I didn't know what to tell them when they arrived. Obviously they know that _something,_ well...'

He trailed off, looking wretched and confused.

'So...your parents don't know what happened?'

'It's not exactly dinner time conversation. But they know something went on, they aren't stupid.'

'No. Well, I suppose you and Sherlock had to get it from somewhere,' Greg looked up to the sky as he thought, 'Well, we'll just tell them the truth about Sherlock and John. They'll realise soon enough anyway, and it'll be better coming from you.'

'And...'

'Us?' Greg pulled his gaze away from the clouds and turned to Mycroft, 'All?'

He felt the physical wave of relief that poured off Mycroft, and he was slightly saddened to realise that he hadn't felt the extent of Mycroft's worry.

'All.' Mycroft whispered, nodding his affirmation with an almost desperate look in his eyes.

Greg reached out his hand and waited for Mycroft to take it, which he did after a second's hesitation. Not because he was unsure, but because he seemed to think Greg would snatch it away again. As soon as the long fingers closed around his, Greg squeezed tight and together they walked back to Sherlock's room.

 

#

 

They met Mycroft's parents outside Sherlock's room. They seemed to be waiting,silent, but open and comfortable in each other's company. Greg felt himself smile when he saw them, and he would have bet a month's wages that almost everyone had the same reaction when they saw them. They had a sort of _lived in_ look about them. A couple who had obviously been together, and happily so, for decades. They looked up when Mycroft and Greg approached.

'The doctor is changing his dressing,' Mrs Holmes said, 'Very unpleasant.'

'Unpleasant,' her husband agreed with a nod.

Mycroft loosened his grip on Greg's hand slightly, but Greg only tightened his in response. Both of Mycroft's parents seemed to notice and they looked at their eldest son both pleased and expectant.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and Greg gave him a subtle nudge in the ribs.

'Father, Mummy...this is Gregory Lestrade.'

'Detective Inspector Lestrade?'

Greg nodded, 'Yes ma'am.'

'Oh, Sherlock's told us all about you.'

'Oh yes, all about you.'

Greg sincerely hoped not, but he smiled broadly at them.

'Very pleased to finally meet you.'

Mycroft's cool fingers clenched for a moment and Greg understood what he was trying to say without the need for words, or even a glance.

'And you,' the smile slipped from his face, 'But I'm afraid we have some bad news about Sherlock and John...'

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lamprophony  
> n. – loudness and clarity of enunciation


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it goes....

Greg carried two awful coffees over to the table where Mycroft's father was waiting. Mycroft had remained with his mother to oversee Sherlock, and no doubt to have the same chat as Greg felt he was about to have himself.

'Sherlock mentions you often, but not Mycroft.'

Greg emptied three packets of sugar into his cup, despite not taking sugar.

'It's been a bit...complicated.'

'He didn't even tell us he'd bonded.'

'Like I said, complicated.'

Mr Holmes sipped his coffee, 'We knew there was someone, of course, but Mycroft didn't talk about it, and, well, you know what he's like if you try to push him for information.'

Greg knew only too well.

'Are you two okay? It's just, well, two alphas...'

'We're...figuring stuff out right now. But...but yeah, we're okay.' That was a gross oversimplification of the facts, but if Mycroft hadn't told his parents anything, then Greg wasn't about to.

Mr Holmes leaned forward and lowered his voice slightly, 'We always thought Sherlock would be the one with the complicated relationship. He was quite challenging as a young boy, very sensitive, tended to isolate himself from others. Of course, Mycroft does the same. We never thought he would meet anyone, so we're quite pleased he found you.'

Greg was touched, but didn't know how to respond. Fortunately Mr Holmes didn't seem to expect him to.

 

#

 

'You should take some time together. It's not good to spend all your time working.'

'Things have been a little-'

'Don't argue with me, Mycie.'

'Yes, Mummy.'

'Take Gregory out to dinner.'

On the bed Sherlock was smirking and Mycroft was very uncomfortable having his private life discussed in front of his brother.

'I have to say that Gregory is rather fetching, how did you meet him? And how on earth was he still single at his age?'

'Can we not discuss this right now?'

'Oh come on, Mycroft,' Sherlock crowed gleefully, 'Why don't you tell Mummy all about it?'

'Perhaps I should start with how _you_ met Gregory,' Mycroft raised an eyebrow and Sherlock's smile slid away, replaced with a scowl.

At that moment the man himself returned, accompanied by Mr Holmes.

'Oh boys, don't fight,' Mrs Holmes rolled her eyes at Gregory, 'You can't imagine the fights they had when they were children.'

'I bet I could,' Gregory shot a glance between the brothers, and Mrs Holmes patted his hand affectionately.

'I was just telling Mycie that you should take the evening off, go out for dinner together. You've spent so much time looking after Sherlock.'

'We'll stay with him tonight,' Mr Holmes added.

To Gregory's credit he didn't look at all uncomfortable, although Mycroft could feel his uncertainty.

'I cant speak for Mycroft, but I think I'm too exhausted to do anything other than collapse on the sofa.'

'Then get something delivered. I'll call lovely Anthea to take you home, neither of you should drive if you're tired.'

And that was how Mycroft found himself bundled into the back of one of his cars with Gregory sitting across from him looking slightly stunned.

'I do apologise, Gregory.'

'It's okay.'

'I...I can drop you home if you don't-'

'No,' Gregory surprised him, 'They're right, we should spend some time together. Away from...stuff.'

Mycroft didn't want to hope for too much, but as he tried to form a suitably calm response, Gregory looked away from the window and gave him a half smile, just barely visible in the darkness inside the car.

 

#

 

Greg was more nervous than he would have ever admitted, and tried to calm himself by pressing close to Mycroft as they walked from the car to the house, breathing in Mycroft's scent. Even that was harder than it used to be, everything dulled by the medication. He couldn't feel what Mycroft was feeling, but he knew from Mycroft's reactions over the last few days that Mycroft could still feel his, and he wasn't really sure what he thought about that.

'Myc,' he asked sitting down on the sofa while Mycroft dished out their takeaway, peering curiously into the cartons as though he wasn't sure what he was looking at.

'Yes?' Mycroft was still distracted by soft noodles.

'Why didn't you ever take the chemical treatment when you...you know?'

Mycroft still didn't look up, but Greg knew that he now had the other man's full attention. He watched as Mycroft licked his lips nervously, and then slowly continued spooning out food.

'Myc?'

 

#

 

Mycroft carefully transferred food from carton to plate, focusing on it so he didn't have to look at Gregory as he answered.

'I didn't want to.'

Behind him Gregory asked, 'Why not?'

Closing his eyes Mycroft very quietly said, 'I didn't want to let you go.'

He heard Gregory move, and seconds later there were hands on his hips and Gregory's forehead pressed against the back of his neck. They stood like that for a long time, neither of them speaking until Gregory lifted his head away, only to replace it with his lips, warm and soft against Mycroft's skin.

Letting out a shaky breath, Mycroft allowed himself to relax back against Gregory as the man continued to trail kisses down his neck. He didn't move until Gregory gently turned him around so they were face to face, and he pressed Mycroft against the counter as he continued to kiss his neck and throat and finally his lips, so gently it made Mycroft gasp.

'You,' Gregory said between kisses, 'Are an idiot.'

Mycroft's only response was to trail his fingers down Gregory's back and pull him closer gently as the man slowly started to undo Mycroft's tie, and then he paused.

'Is this okay?' Gregory asked, breaking their kiss.

'Yes.'

'Yes?'

'Yes,' Mycroft breathed his own hands moving to Gregory's shirt and mirroring the action.

Gregory kissed him again, still feathery soft and slow as Mycroft pushed his shirt off and ran his hands across Gregory's skin.

'God, Mycroft,' Gregory sighed, and that was all it took for Mycroft to take Gregory's hand and lead him silently upstairs to his bedroom.

There they slowly undressed each other, taking their time in a way they never had before, relearning each other's body and taking note of the changes since the last time they had seen each other like that.

Mycroft trailed his fingers across the scar on Gregory's shoulder from the afternoon he fell through the glass roof of the conservatory and smiled before pressing a kiss over the area, breath shuddering against the skin when Gregory wrapped his hand around Mycroft and slowly, excruciatingly slowly backed him towards the bed.

That was how they made love, laying together, kissing gently and slowly stroking each other to completion. Neither of them made a sound beyond soft gasps. Gregory watched Mycroft as he came, the moment more intense than anything Mycroft had every experienced before.

Afterwards neither of them moved to clean themselves or reposition themselves. They just lay facing each other in silence until finally sleep claimed them.

 

 


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I adore John Watson, but I can't express how much enjoyment I've been getting out of all the John hating going on. I keep laughing at inappropriate moments when I remember some of the comments. You guys are awesome. So here, let's watch John's life fall apart a little bit more......

Greg woke to find Mycroft watching him.

'You're still here,' he said.

'I live here,' Mycroft smiled.

'I thought you might have done a runner during the night.'

Mycroft frowned at him, and Greg reached out and stroked his face gently.

'I think we ruined your sheets,' he said.

'I'd noticed.'

'I think I might be stuck to this one.'

'I'd noticed that too.'

'Is there anything you don't notice?'

Mycroft looked offended, 'No.'

'Oh really? Are you _sure_ there isn't something you've missed?'

As if he could read Greg's mind, Mycroft glanced down and a small smirk appeared on his face.

'You have a one track mind, Detective Inspector.'

'And you have a shower that's big enough for two, Mr Holmes.'

'So I do.'

Greg leaned forward and kissed him lightly, 'Race you?'

 

#

 

John Watson woke to find Mary watching him.

'Good morning,' she purred, moving closer against him.

'Morning,' John let himself breathe in scent for a while, his nose in her hair, as he trailed his fingers over her bare shoulder.

Mary lifted her head and kissed him deeply. John pulled her closer, hand sliding from her shoulder to the side of her face, pushing back her hair and wrapping his fingers in it before pulling back slightly so Mary had no choice but to tilt her head back, exposing her neck. John licked the soft skin beneath her ear and Mary gave a little gasp that made John smile. Sherlock had _hated_ when he did that and used to pu...Sherlock.

Abruptly John let go of Mary and swung his legs out of bed, 'I should get ready for work.'

He didn't look at Mary as he left the room, guilt washing over him.

 

#

 

Greg and Mycroft ate breakfast together in silence, sneaking glances at each other, and taking every opportunity to touch each other, fingers brushing as they passed the butter, ankles rubbing together under the table. The feeling in the house was one of contentment, underlaid with an understanding that they had never fully shared before. Greg felt that something significant had changed between them, and he liked it.

Mycroft, apparently, liked it too. He was more relaxed than Greg had ever seen him, which, admittedly, was still more wound up than any other person, but still, it was nice to see.

They went to the hospital together to find Mycroft's parents talking to Sherlock about coming home for a while after he left hospital. They looked tired, but delighted to see their son and Greg.

'Did you have nice evening?'

'We did, thank you.' Mycroft picked up Sherlock's chart and read the entries made during the night.

'Did you go out for dinner?' Mrs Holmes asked.

'We ordered in.' Greg didn't add that neither of them had eaten a mouthful of it, and the plates were still sitting on the counter when they woke up that morning.

Sherlock was glaring at them, and when Mycroft met his eye Sherlock made a great show of pulling a face, but he knew better than to make rude comments in front of his mother.

'The doctor said they might release him today.'

'It's not a prison. They can't keep me here.'

'I'm afraid they can, darling.'

Sherlock's head snapped around to Mycroft, 'What did you do?' he hissed.

Mycroft was still reading the chart, 'I had to assume control over your medical decisions while you were in your altered state. While making the necessary arrangements I thought it prudent to ensure you were unable to simply check yourself out without my express consent.'

'Can you do that, Mycie?'

'Mycroft can do anything.' Greg was torn between his amusement and the slight terror he always felt when he realised he had no idea the full extent of Mycroft's power, and so he covered it up with a laugh.

'And apparently he does,' Sherlock snapped.

Greg leaned back against the window sill, 'And I'll tell you all about it later if you like.'

That shut Sherlock up for a while.

 

#

 

Mary was making tea when John came out fully dressed. She passed him a plate of toast with a light kiss on the cheek, but John could feel her confusion and that made him feel worse.

He ate in silence as Mary went to shower, and then left, far too early for work, but unable to think clearly when he was so close to Mary.

He walked to work, and the further he got from the flat, the clearer his mind was. But that wasn't necessarily a good thing. He thought over the morning's events. Christ, he hadn't been able to have sex with his wife because he'd thought about someone else. And not just _someone,_ he's thought about Sherlock. Just like he'd thought about the man every single day he'd been away. It wasn't as if John had never thought about Sherlock during sex before. The number of girlfriends and one night stands before Sherlock who had never known he'd been imagining the tall, pale man the whole time they were in bed. All the times after Sherlock when John closed his eyes and summoned up a memory and came over his own hand to the memory of the sounds Sherlock made when his body would shudder through his orgasm.

But he had never done that with Mary. She had been different. From Mary came into his life it had only been Mary.

And then Sherlock had swept up to him at dinner and in one moment threw everything in John's life into chaos.

Again.

 

#

 

John Watson, six weeks out of Afghanistan, two weeks out of hospital, and hours away from shooting himself, walked into the pathology lab at St Bart's and stopped, every sense was telling him that there was danger in that room. But it was intoxicating in way that John had never experienced before. The closest he had ever come to that feeling was the day he left for his first tour of duty.

The man feigned disinterest, and the other two in the room clearly didn't know him well enough to spot that John clearly had the man's full attention.

Within hours John had followed on a mad chase through London, killed a man and been kidnapped. And the strange man with the unusual eyes and the most ridiculous dress sense hadn't even asked if he was moving in, he just announced it to the landlady with a smile and just hadn't argued.

Oh, they'd argued about other things, big things, small things, disgusting things. Mostly they argued about things Sherlock did, or things Sherlock said, or things that Sherlock brought home and left sitting around on the kitchen counters.

John hadn't known on that first day what was coming, all he had known was that needed to be close to that man. To keep him in his life for as long as possible. Which he did. Every day until the afternoon that Sherlock Holmes had stepped out of it.

And when he walked back in, John had pushed him out.

He wished now that he hadn't. He wished now that he had done what he'd done all the years ago and given the man just a few more hours. A few more hours to explain. A few more to convince him. A few more hours to make everything different.

 


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the sex! Here comes the sex!  
> Well, a bit anyway. Today will hopefully be a big update day - i'll post chapter by chapter as I get them edited rather than make the anxious folks wait until this evening. C
> 
> In which Mycroft does something unexpected and Greg tries to text Anthea during sex.

 

Gregory stayed at his own flat, alone, for the next two nights, and it was torture for Mycroft leaving him each evening, knowing that he was going home to his impersonal house alone. Gregory's flat was small and cluttered. Full of mismatched furniture, stacks of books and papers and a tangle of cables and consoles underneath the television that Mycroft had no idea about. Mycroft's house, on the other hand, was large and impersonal. Expensive, but spartan furnishings did little to make it feel more comfortable. But before Gregory, Mycroft had spent so little time there that he never noticed. And then there had been all those wonderful months where they bounced between the two homes, and Mycroft found that while he still had an aversion to clutter, he liked having Gregory about so much that unwashed cups in the sink, or books piled beside the bed no longer bothered him.

His own home had even begun to change. Gregory had a habit of leaving things in his wake. Socks, newspapers, cups left in strange places, books left wherever he had been when the reader was finished. Mycroft had once spent a full ten minutes staring at a crime novel balanced on the edge of the bath, wondering how it got there.

'Sorry,' Gregory said when Mycroft mentioned it, 'I was on the toilet and must have left it behind.'

But it had been Gregory himself who had filled the space in a way that no item or piece of furniture ever could, and although some, many, of his habits annoyed Mycroft, just having the man himself around more than made up for any of those.

After he was gone, Mycroft had purged the house of everything that reminded him of Gregory, returning it to it's previously sterile state. He then began to spend more and more time at the office where he felt he was getting under the feet of some of his staff, although Anthea would have made things very clear, had that been the case.

In truth, he had simply not wanted to admit to himself that he missed the man and was at a loss of what to do with the free time he suddenly had now that Gregory was no longer in the picture.

But he had been fine there on his own for many years before he met Gregory, and he had survived there after what he would forever call the incident. He had spent every night alone there since the night Sherlock 'died' when Gregory came running to tell him – just too late, but Mycroft would never, for the rest of his life, forget the way Gregory had come into the room, determined that Mycroft shouldn't hear it from a stranger, and how he had caught him and held him all night when he realised he just hadn't been fast enough.

And that man had lain beside him just a few nights ago, made love to him for hours, had made breakfast for them, had bathed with him, had kissed him goodnight not more than an hour ago.

Climbing into bed Mycroft swore to himself that he would not be alone in doing do so ever again if he could help it.

 

#

 

Sherlock's parents insisted that Greg and Mycroft spend as much time together as possible while they were at the hospital. Neither man was going to argue with them. They had dinner at a place Greg liked, where he had the biggest stack of ribs that could be piled onto a plate, and Mycroft had spent fifteen minutes complaining about the wine list.'

'Do you have to do that, Gregory?' Mycroft asked as Greg licked sauce off his fingers.

'Yes.'

'It's very distracting.'

Greg innocently put another one in his mouth and repeated the action, 'Good.'

Across the table Mycroft swallowed.

'I think we might be ready for the bill.'

 

#

 

The door hadn't even closed behind them before they started pulling at each other's clothes, and they practically ran for the bedroom, shedding shirts and coats in their wake. Greg wasn't sure where he found the strength, but he practically lifted and threw Mycroft onto the bed, laughing at the other man's squawk of protest. And then he was on top of him, kissing him hard as Mycroft ran his hands over every inch of Greg that he could reach.

'Same drawer?' Greg managed between kisses. He had to ask, it had been years since they had done this, and the other night hadn't gone beyond their hands. It hadn't needed to. But this was not going to be a night for gentle lovemaking.

Mycroft nodded, cheeks warm, and Greg knew Mycroft well enough to know the man was embarrassed to admit that he had restocked the drawer in recent days. Greg laughed and pressed a kiss to his collarbone as he reached across to the beside cabinet.

Seconds later one slick finger was pressing gently against Mycroft, and the way the other man gasped at the coldness of the lube always amused Greg. He pushed in, more gently than normal, after all it had been a while, but less gently than he knew he really should.

Mycroft moaned and dear God if that wasn't a beautiful sound.

Greg watched him as he inserted another finger, moving them slowly. Mycroft's eyes were closed and Greg could almost see the man's mind filing away every sensation and movement for future analysis.

It occurred to Greg that they hadn't actually done this since the night they bonded. Not with each other, anyway. Well, Greg hadn't, although he'd had a damn good try. He had no idea about Mycroft, and now really wasn't the right time to ask that particular question.

'Okay?' he asked instead.

'Yes,'

Greg removed his fingers, enjoying the sounds Mycroft made. He took one last look at the man before sitting up and returning to the drawer where he spent precious time opening the still-cellophaned box of condoms. Clearly Mycroft hadn't planned ahead as well as he thought.

When he turned back around he stopped.

'Myc?' he asked, his breath shaky.

It was a sight he had fantasised about for years, and the last thing he was expecting. Mycroft was laying on his front, looking up at Greg with a strange expression, as if he was waiting to see what Greg did next.

'Mycroft, do you know-'

Mycroft nodded.

'Oh god,' Greg groaned, unable to stop himself reaching out and stroking the length of Mycroft's back, coming to rest just at the base of his spine, hesitation stilling the movement.

Mycroft watched him, dark eyes noting every reaction.

'Are you sure?' Greg could hardly breathe any more.

'Yes.'

Greg moved slowly, not out of reluctance, but because of the significance of what was about to happen. It wasn't just sex, it was complete and total submission.

He leaned over Mycroft, pressing against him and kissed his shoulder, allowing his head to rest there for a few seconds.

'Myc?' he asked again, needing the permission, needing to know how _he_ had somehow ended up with the most powerful man in the country offering himself like that. This amazing man.

Mycroft nodded again, 'Yes,' he whispered, and he spoke he gently pushed his hips upwards, pressing his body against Greg's.

'Oh God, Mycroft,' Greg sat back to take it in for a second, shaking hard and almost afraid to touch Mycroft, 'You have no idea...'

He dropped his head down and kissed Mycroft's neck and shoulders, supporting himself with one hand as the other carefully guided him into Mycroft.

 

#

 

Mycroft was shaking, lost in the rush of emotions he felt from Gregory, and for the first time he was glad that Gregory could no longer feel his. Fear, anticipation, excitement and the total _wrongness_ of what they were doing was a strange feeling, and adrenaline was coursing through him so fast he couldn't focus on anything else except this new feeling that went against everything an alpha was, everything his body was telling him. It was a feeling that could be as addictive as it would destructive.

He knew he was in trouble before Gregory even laid a hand on him, and when the man asked for permission, Mycroft wanted him so badly that he couldn't get the words out. And then Gregory was inside him and everything stilled, white and silent. Then his body's battle with itself really began.

It was wrong. Everything about it was wrong, and he was disgusted and frightened and wanted to push the man away, but he wanted to push harder against him too. He wanted the hand on his hip to grip tighter, and the kisses on his neck to be harder.

Confusion swirled cold through his mind, and he tried to focus, but everything was a blur of sensations and images moving so fast he felt sick.

'Gregory, no!'

 

#

 

Greg stopped immediately at Mycroft's voice.

The man beneath him was shaking and pale and that frightened Greg.

'Okay,' he said softly, taking care to keep his weight off Mycroft, 'It's okay. You're okay.'

Mycroft made a soft noise beneath him and managed a nod.

'Myc, I need to move to pull out, is that okay?'

Another nod.

'Are you sure? If you need a second, if it's too sensitive just tell me. I'm fairy sure I can hold myself up here for hours.'

That actually earned him a snort of amusement, and Greg relaxed. Things weren't as bad as he had thought. He gently pulled out of Mycroft, and then practically rolled the man over so he was on his back and not exposed at his most vulnerable. Greg lay down beside him, watched him breathe, wanting to hold him, but waiting for permission to touch him.

'Too much?' he asked.

'Very.'

'What was it like?'

Mycroft turned his head and looked confused as he tried to make sense of how he had felt, 'Unusual.'

Greg laughed, 'Someone as intelligent as you and that's all you can manage?'

'It was a very intense experience. It was confusing.'

'Perhaps I should text Anthea,' Greg mused, 'I'm certain she would know a more impressive word.'

'Now would not be a good time to call Anthea,' Mycroft said.

'No?' Greg lifted Mycroft's hand from where it lay at his side and kissed the back of it.

'No.

'Hm,' Greg let go of Mycroft's hand and kissed his shoulder, 'Sure?'

'Most definitely.'

'Oh,' Greg brushed a kiss against Mycroft's lips, and then his throat, 'You should probably use this time to come up with something then.'

He continued to kiss Mycroft's skin, working down his chest and stomach, sliding himself further down the bed as he did. He he kissed Mycroft's hipbone he heard the other man gasp.

'And w-what are you going to do while I...think?'

Greg smiled and ran his tongue along the inside of Mycroft's thigh.

'Oh,' Greg said, enjoying every second of Mycroft's reaction, 'It's okay, I've enough to amuse me down here for a while.'


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock starts to make progress and Mycroft makes Anthea very angry.

Greg woke to find himself handcuffed to the headboard and Mycroft calmly tying his tie infront of the mirror.

'What the hell?'

'Ah, Gregory,' Mycroft turned and smiled down at him, 'Just restoring the balance of power.'

'What?' Greg struggled to free his hands, 'Mycroft!'

'I have a conference call in ten minutes, I should be no longer than an hour.'

Greg started to panic, 'You can't leave me here.'

'I can. And I'm going to,' Mycroft leaned down so his mouth was right by Greg's ear, and he lowered his voice until it was just a purr, 'And while you're there you can think about last night and wonder what I'm going to do to you when I get back.'

And then he was gone, leaving Greg inexplicably breathless and with an unexpected erection that was actually painful.

 

#

 

Sherlock and John were both, when it came down to it, men of science. John Watson dealt with medical facts every day, his life was based on fact. Sherlock Holmes dealt with facts of human nature and behaviour. He saw the things that no one else did. The little things. The big picture, however, he wasn't so good at.

John was good at seeing the big picture. He would miss the details, of course, and was often initially wrong, but his support had meant that Sherlock was not afraid of the details getting in the way of the answer.

Before John, Sherlock had sometimes worried that he'd missed something, that he'd gotten something wrong. But then all of a sudden there was John Watson, calm, collected, bit of a tendency to swear when Sherlock woke him late a night. And John Watson would tell him when he was wrong.

And when he was right...

He solved crimes. He helped people. He got thanked. He did. But it was all so impersonal until John. John had genuinely thought that everything he did was brilliant, not weird, not frightening, not uncomfortable. Just amazing.

And Sherlock had lived off that for so long.

He didn't need the world to admire him. He just needed John.

Standing on the roof of St Bart's, trying to convince John that he was wrong had been the worst point in his life. That man, who had placed so much trust in him, had followed him willingly into whatever scenario he decided to chase that day, who had _believed_ in him even when no one else would. And he'd had to try and break him.

But it hadn't worked. Even after he was long 'dead' John had still believed in him. Had eventually been proven right by the inquest.

Sherlock had run, and he had fought and he had hid and he had done it all for John. He had tried to ignore the ache in his body each time John was with someone else. He may have had hundreds of miles of distance between them, but he could still feel John's emotions, and the betrayal and hurt he felt each time he knew, each time he _felt_ John was sleeping with someone else almost killed him at times. Laying in the dark, alone and cold and frightened and able to feel _everything_ his mate was doing had been worse than any kind of torture.

He thought about all of this as he lay in his hospital bed day after day while the chemical treatment Mycroft had begun on his behalf started to work. It was surprising efficient, even with Sherlock's high tolerance after years of experimentation. It began by taking the edge off just enough that Sherlock's whole body stopped hurting so much. Within a week he wasn't able to feel John at all, and that was almost a relief. The first time he realised that the only emotions he could feel were his own, he had lain on his side and wept, both for the freedom and for the loss.

Most likely he would never see John again, and the shock of that was almost too much. Seeing John again had been the only thing that kept him going over those years, and to suddenly lose that anchor was an unbalancing sensation. For so long everything in his life had been about John. And now...It was probably a good thing, he reasoned bitterly, after all, John Watson had turned out to be just one more addiction.

 

#

 

Greg had tried shouting after Mycroft, but he knew the man wouldn't come back. Just like he hadn't come back when he'd done the same thing to Mycroft. Although, he'd only been out of the flat for a matter of minutes, fuck knew where Mycroft was going.

He tried to sort his thoughts and feelings to quell the panic that was seeping in around the edges at the idea of being helpless and vulnerable. He held on to thoughts of Mycroft. Mycroft would come back for him. He trusted Mycroft. He _trusted_ him and Mycroft wouldn't do anything that would hurt him. He knew that, and that was the only thing that kept him calm. He wondered if this was how Mycroft had felt the night before. So far out of your comfort zone that you were actually frightened, but at the same time...

Greg shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

It was....exciting. No, that wasn't a strong enough word, but it was the only one his brain threw at him. It was the same feeling he sometimes got when he was chasing a suspect and wasn't entirely sure if he was going to be alive at the end of the night. It terrified him, but thrilled him at the same time, and afterwards, when it was over, the relief was the biggest high of all.

Perhaps that was what Mycroft had been trying to say the night before when he couldn't find the right words.

Greg's mind supplied a mental image of Mycroft on his front, hips raised towards him, offering him everything. Greg groaned and strained against the handcuffs, desperate to get a hand around cock, some sort of friction. He tried to think of something else, but all he could think about was Mycroft on his knees as Greg pushed into him, and how that felt to take the man like that, to completely take him in every way, and what that meant for an alpha like Mycroft to give him everything. Something he had never given before, never allowed anyone else to do, and would never against allowed anyone to do, and he had trusted Greg enough to allow Greg to be that person.

That thought sent a surge of lust through Greg, and his whole body shuddered as he came, having never put a hand on himself.

 

#

 

In his office a few miles away, Mycroft Holmes suddenly flushed very hot and rocked back in his seat a little, enough for Anthea to raise her head from her blackberry. She took in his dazed expression and shook her head. She supposed this didn't _really_ count as having sex in the office, but whatever Detective Inspector Lestrade was doing to himself, it was really interrupting the conference call.

 

#

 

'...frightening,' Mycroft gasped as Greg nipped lightly on the inside of his thigh.

'No.'

'Exciting.'

Greg kissed the spot he had just bitten, 'No.'

'Over- oh!' Mycroft breathed as Greg took him into his mouth with one sudden motion.

'Hm?'

Mycroft tried to speak, 'O-overwhelming.'

Greg shook his head very slightly as he pulled back slowly.

'I-I appear to be suffering from-from a case of lethologica.'

Greg laughed and ran his tongue gently along Mycroft's shaft and then over the head with slightly more pressure.

'Then you just keep trying up there,' he laughed, and returned his attention to what he was doing.

 

#

 

Mycroft glanced at Anthea across the table and she gave him a 'don't you dare' look that would have been the undoing of lesser men. But lesser men did not have a naked Gregory Lestrade handcuffed to the bed and clearly in a state that needed...tending to.

'I'm sorry, sir,' Mycroft said smoothly, ignoring Anthea's glare and knowing that he was going to pay dearly for it later, 'Something has come up and I'm needed elsewhere.'

He prided himself on the fact that every word was true, and was already pulling on his coat before the Pime Minister could say anything else.

'My assistant will take down any final notes and I can assure you I will give them my full attention on my return.'

He practically ran out of the building and towards home.

 

#

 

Jesus!

Mycroft stopped in the doorway an inhaled deeply. Gregory's scent filled the entire house and blinded Mycroft for a moment with it's intensity. He went straight to the bedroom, unable to stop himself.

He found Gregory still where he'd left him, he'd half expected the man to manage to free himself. But Gregory was still on the bed, semen drying on his stomach (and how had he managed that?), writhing with desire and fear. He looked at Mycroft as he entered the room and narrowed his eyes.

'You bastard!'

'Gregory,' Mycroft felt far too hot suddenly, being so close to Greg, being surrounded in the smell of him, and the sight of him there on the bed, 'I'm-'

'Shut up!' Gregory growled and Mycroft did, although he continued towards the bed. Gregory didn't seem to have the patience to wait for him and he snapped out again, 'If you don't fuck me right this minute then I swear to God you will not like what I do to you when I get free.'

Gregory had his eyes closed as he tried to control himself, so he didn't see the look on Mycroft's face, which was just as well because Mycroft was suddenly hard and rocking with desire as he struggled with his buttons. Condom, lube and less than a minute later he was leaning over Gregory, kissing him hard as he worked him open with more speed than they had ever done it.

'Just do it,' Gregory was almost whimpering.

'Are you sure?' Mycroft didn't want to hurt him.

'I meant what I said, Mycroft,' Gregory opened his eyes and looked directly at him, and something in them changed, there was an uncertainty there, a fear, and...something else. And he didn't need Gregory to speak to know what was going through his mind, 'You can...you know, if-if you want...'

'Gregory,' Mycroft breathed, as the full weight of what the man was offering settled on them both. But in his ever constant need for clarification and, more importantly, consent, Gregory repeated himself, more firmly and clearly.

'You can take me, if you want to.'

 

#

 

He watched Mycroft's pupils dilate to the point where his eyes were almost black with lust and his lips parted in shock. God, he could look at that man like that all day and still get a thrill that he was the one who put that look on his face.

'No.'

Greg jerked, 'What?'

Above him Mycroft was shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts away, 'I want to, Gregory, very much. But I do not trust myself to stop if you ask me to. We are both aware that my self control is not a strong character trait.'

To see the man so open and honest and denying himself something he wanted because he worried about Greg sent a burst of affection and respect that Mycroft clearly felt, for he looked down at Greg, head to one side.

'Myc?'

'Yes?'

'Kiss me.'

And Mycroft did, pushing into Greg with more urgency that either of them was expecting. Mycroft ran one hand the length of Greg's arm, and suddenly Greg's arms where free. He immediately used them to pull Mycroft down onto him, feeling the whole weight of his body pressing against him as he clawed along his back. In response Mycroft slammed back into him harder and Greg's teeth latched onto Mycroft's neck, not breaking the skin, but leaving a dark bruise beside the man's mark. Greg ran his tongue along the raised skin of the mark, now healed white, and he felt Mycroft slow at the sensation.

'I'm going to do that again one day,' Greg whispered and enjoyed the shiver that ran through Mycroft at his words, 'But where it's really obvious,' he kissed higher up his neck, 'Where you can't hide it, and where everyone will see it.'

'Gregory...' Mycroft breathed and kissed him again with a fierceness that perfectly matched Greg's pure need for other man.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lethologica – the inability to recal the correct precise word for something


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock is cruel, Mycroft is oversenstive and Greg is an idiot.

'Remind me again why I'm doing this?' Sherlock pouted and Mycroft sighed.

'Because we agreed that I would let you leave hospital if you stayed with Mummy while we purged Baker Street. Although why you want to return there when-'

'It's my home.'

Mycroft didn't argue, 'Fine.

'Just stay out of my room.' He tossed the keys at Mycroft and went back to getting dressed, 'I suppose Lestrade will be helping you?'

'Possibly, since you refuse to let me have professionals do it.'

Sherlock made a noise that could have been a growl, but managed to turn it into a dismissive sniff. Even Mycroft didn't enjoy flaunting his relationship when Sherlock was going through so much on his own.

'How are you finding the medication?'

'They agree with me more than they are agreeing with Lestrade.'

Of course Sherlock would know Lestrade was taking the same treatment, and he really should have expected what came next.

'When are you planning on beginning yours?'

'I wasn't.'

'I thought it would have been right up your street, all that self repression, and finally a reason for doing it other than self indulgence and the dramatic.'

'Quite,' Mycroft stuck to the promise he'd made his mother and kept his mouth firmly closed.

'The sooner the better,' Sherlock shrugged his jacket on, 'It's only a matter of time, after all.'

'Matter of time until what, exactly?'

'Until he leaves you,' Sherlock said as if it should have been obvious, 'If he's still on the course, and how exactly is he funding that by the way, I know he asked you, but he didn't take your money, you had a fight about it. It's coming from somewhere though, and he's – never mind. What was I saying? Oh yes,' Sherlock whirled around to face Mycroft, 'If he were serious about a long term relationship, maintaining your...bond,' he screwed up his face at the word as if it personally offended him, 'Then why is he still taking medication to suppress it?'

As Sherlock swirled past him to the corridor where their parents were waiting, Mycroft tried not to be angry with his brother. He was hurt and he was bitter and he was lashing out. And however cruel he was, Mycroft knew that he had to keep the reasons for it in the front of his mind and not allow himself to react to anything Sherlock said. If nothing else, Mummy's genteel wrath could be terribly tiresome and unrelenting and he didn't need to do anything that would cause her to call him a 'horrid boy' in front of half of MI6 and a delegation of French diplomats. Again.

 

#

 

Greg met Mycroft at Baker Street to start to sort the flat for Sherlock's return in a few weeks time. Sherlock had not been pleased at the prospect of spending that amount of time with his parents away from London, but it had been the only condition on which Mycroft would sign him out.

'How'd he take it?' Greg shrugged his coat off and dropped into a seat

'As well as you might imagine,' Mycroft looked around the chaos that was his brother's flat and tried to pick a place to start.

'You aren't seriously going to haul any of this stuff down those stairs are you? Because I would love to see that.'

'Sorry to disappoint you. I'm not designed for manual labour and any attempt at such would only embarrass us all. No, I am simply noting the things which should be put into storage and then Anthea will arrange and oversee their removal.'

'And Sherlock agreed to a lot of strangers handling his stuff?'

'Not as such, but he's not here.'

Greg looked around, 'How can you even tell what is Sherlock's and what's John's?'

Mycroft had spotted something under the couch, and he used the tip of his umbrella to hook the fabric and draw it out. It was a jumper in a curious shade of oatmeal and made from some rather stiff and unrelenting wool.

'Well,' he said, 'And I'm guessing, but I think this may be Dr Watson's.'

Greg laughed and started looking at the books. It was a fair assumption to make that most of the text books were Sherlock's. It was only then that he noticed the most obvious difference in the room.

'Where's John's chair?'

'Storage,' Mycroft didn't even turn around.

'You did that already?'

'No, Sherlock. He must have arranged it as soon as he knew what happened with Dr and Mrs Watson. It was the most obvious visual reminder. By getting rid of it, he was admitting to himself that John was gone.'

Greg looked thoughtful, 'That's a bit grown up for Sherlock.'

'Yes, sometimes my brother can be remarkably mature.'

'And sometimes he sets fire to the curtains and tries to steal body parts from crime scenes.'

'Everyone should have a hobby.'

They moved through the flat, Greg sticking post it notes to the most obvious things, and making a small pile in the middle of the floor of the things he thought were John's. Mycroft could go through it later. In truth there didn't seem to be too much left behind. Most of the items in the flat had been Sherlock's and John had come with nothing, and left, it appeared, the same way. Dr Watson had stepped into a fully formed world the day he met Sherlock, and when he was with him, he clearly hadn't needed anything else.

Greg thought about that as he cleaned out the fridge. They had tossed a coin for it, and Greg had lost. It wasn't as bad as it could have been. Mrs Hudson tended to do a quick clear out every so often and so there was no green food or solid milk, which was a relief.

'How will you know if he keeps on his treatment?'

'Mummy will ensure it.'

'And in all your years growing up, Sherlock always did what your mother told him to?'

'Oh Lord no. But we have an agreement and he knows what will happen if he breaks it.'

'And you're having him followed?'

'Of course.'

Greg looked at what might have once been yoghurt and tossed it into the bin he'd dragged over beside him.

'He seems to be doing well on it.'

'Yes. It does rather seem to have been the best plan. He was quite full of it's merits to the point of recommending it.'

'To you?' Greg would have loved to have been a fly on he wall during that conversation.

'Yes,' Mycroft clearly wasn't going to go into details about the rest of the conversation, but he looked annoyed. Then again, most people looked annoyed after a conversation with Sherlock.

They worked on in silence for a while until Greg could stomach the kitchen no longer and moved to look at the bathroom, not really expecting to find anything of John's, and being surprised to find an old dressing gown of his hanging on the back of the door along with Sherlock's favourite one. He carried it through to the living room and added it to the pile.

'Gregory?' Mycroft was going through some old bills that were piled on a side table, 'How are you funding your treatment?'

Ah. Greg had been wondering when that question was going to come up. He gave himself a few seconds by bending to scoop up a cup off the floor beside Sherlock's armchair and set it on the table.

'Savings are taking a bit of a battering,' he admitted, 'And I cashed in some bonds, so I'm good for a little while.'

'You know I would-'

'I know,' Greg cut him off with a reassuring smile, 'And I know I asked, and I know you offered. But...I need to do this on my own. Call it alpha pride.'

Mycroft rolled his eyes and put a yellow post it note on an old fashioned printer.

'And why are you still taking them?'

'I thought we talked about this?' Greg said, 'I need to be able to think with a clear mind about this. When I'm not on them it...it's confusing. I don't want to make stupid decisions.'

'Like biting me again?'

'You can't hold things a guys says during sex against him.' Mycroft had spoken lightly, his tone almost playful, and so Greg took his cue from him. He realised as soon as the words were out that it was exactly the wrong thing to do.

'Hm,' Mycroft smiled tightly and moved across to the skull, 'Do you think we could slip this out without Sherlock noticing?'

'Myc-'

'Let's finish up, I have a meeting this evening with some Department officials.'

Greg knew Mycroft didn't have a meeting. But he just nodded and went along with it.

 


	43. Chapter 43

Mary looked up from the sofa when John's email alert sounded, and she watched his face carefully as he read it. He looked nervous. After a second he sat back in his chair and frowned at the screen. He seemed...disappointed.

'Everything alright?' she asked.

John snapped out of his thoughts and turned to smile at her, 'What? Oh, yeah. Um, Sherlock's out of hospital.'

'He emailed you?'

'No. Um...Mycroft's assistant. What's that look for?'

'Nothing. It's just a bit...odd, is all.'

John looked down, 'Seemed like the best idea.'

'For who?' she shook her head, 'No, sorry. Ignore that, I'm just being a bitch.' she stood up and walked over to him, kissing the top of his head, 'Tea?'

'Thanks.'

 

#

 

_SH released. With family. Well._

 

_#_

 

When Mycroft said the contact would be brief, he hadn't been kidding. Anthea certainly cut straight to the chase, telling him everything and absolutely nothing. John stared at it, wondering what it meant. How Sherlock was feeling. He was still thinking about him an hour later when Mary shouted that she was going to the shops and would be back in an hour. Eventually John sat forward and started to type.

 

#

 

Mary made her way quickly along the street. She hated seeing John like that, and she hated knowing that she was part of the reason he was feeling the way he was. She loved him, needed him, but she never wanted to cause anyone hurt. And that's what was happening. Everyone involved in their huge mess was getting hurt.

If John knew, really knew, how the other man was, then maybe he would stop dwelling over it, stop feeling so guilty all the time. Maybe they could all start to get on with their lives. But John couldn't see Sherlock, couldn't contact him. His only information came from the crumbs they threw him. And it was tearing him apart.

John had promised to stay away. But Mary hadn't. If Sherlock was out of hospital then she could only think of one place he would go. Baker Street.

The front door wasn't a problem. She'd taken John's old key with her, and no one had bothered to change the locks. Mary wondered when the last time they were changed, and how many people were wondering around London with a key to 221b.

She paused on the stairs, hearing a voice that did not belong to Sherlock.

'Let's finish up, I have a meeting this evening with some Department officials.'

Ducking back down into the doorway of the flat below, she pressed herself against the wall and listened as one set of footsteps, from whoever was with Sherlock, came down the stairs and straight out the door. She listened to the silence upstairs until she was certain that the other man would not be returning, and then she moved silently up the stairs and through the half open door, still not really sure what she was going to say or do.

She hit the wall with a force that knock the breath out of her, and even as instinct kicked in and she tried to swivel away, the man behind her twisted her arm tighter and she realised she was pinned. Pinned by someone with training and the reflexes to put it to good use.

'Sherlock-'

'Isn't here, Mrs Watson.'

It was the same voice she had heard speaking, the one she thought belonged to the man who'd left.

'And you shouldn't be either.'

She was abruptly let go and she staggered a step before regaining her balance. She was angry at being overpowered so easily, especially when she saw how slight the tall man was. But the room smelled like John. But different. It was the strange twinned scent of John and Sherlock that she'd only every caught the faintest hint of before, but here it was ingrained into every item in the room, and she was dizzy and caught off guard.

The pale redhaired man with the strange features seemed to understand.

'I'm sure it's overwhelming for you, why don't you have a seat.'

'I'd rather not,' she said.

'Very well,' the man didn't seem to care either way.

'Sorry, who are you? And how do you know my name?'

'It doesn't matter.'

'Where's Sherlock?'

'I told you, he'd not here.'

Mary tried a different route, 'John's in pieces.'

'Dr Watson's emotional state is not my concern.'

'Do you know what this is doing to him? He's not allowed to see him. He get's emails that are one or two words long from some stranger. All he does is think about him. Worry about him. Do you know what that's doing to _me?'_

The man looked at her coolly through her outburst, and when she had finished he simply inclined his head and said, 'That is unfortunate.'

'Unfortunate? That's all you have to say?'

'What else is there to say? You voluntarily bonded with a man knowing the unusual circumstance he was in. Surely you gave that some thought? Therefore, your emotional state is a result of your own choices.'

Mary stared at him open mouthed, her anger rising rapidly as this stranger spoke. She was about to say something when there were footsteps running up the stairs.

'Myc, the car's here. Do you want to- Mary?'

Greg Lestrade, John's friend from the Yard was standing there. Mary had met him a handful of times and she knew he was close to Sherlock. So that meant the other man...Myc...Mycroft.

'You're Sherock's brother?'

'Yes.'

'You're the one who's been doing this?'

'I assure you that I am not 'doing' anything.'

'This is your fault. You know that. Keeping him away like that,' she made to lunge at him, wanting nothing more than to slap that face, or better still, send the arrogant sod backwards down the stairs, but suddenly Greg was behind her, holding her back, and then just holding her as she started to cry. And all the why the pale man just watched.

'Listen, Mary,' Greg said softly, 'I know it's hard, alright. I know what John's feeling. But he has to do what's best for Sherlock, and what Sherlock needs, what Sherlock _wants_ is for John to stay away. Do you understand?'

'It's killing him.'

'I know.'

There was a silence in the room and Mary could feel, rather than see the two men exchange glances. Then Greg spoke again.

'Look, Mycroft has to go to a meeting, so why don't you and I take a walk and have a chat?'

Very slowly Mary nodded.

 

#

 

From the bathroom she could hear the two men talking in the living room.

'If you need me...'

'I'll call. But it'll be fine, she just needs someone to talk to.'

There was a pause.

'Are you...alright?'

'Fine,' Greg assured, 'I'll call you later.'

 

#

 

'Why did you come to Baker Street?' Greg asked as they walked toward the park.

'John said Sherlock was released, I thought he'd come home.'

Greg nodded, that made sense, and it's what Sherlock would have done if he'd had his way, 'He's staying with his family for a while. Time and distance, and all that.'

'What were you doing at the flat, why were there piles of stuff on the floor?'

'We were sorting out some of the last of John's things, I don't know if he wants them or not, we can just chuck them into storage. And we were just removing the things that remind Sherlock of John, or,' Greg admitted, 'The things we _think_ will, it's hard to know with Sherlock.'

'Is he really as bad as the stories?'

'Worse.'

They crossed the road and carried on their way in silence for a while.

'How's John?' Greg asked, 'I...I haven't spoken to him for a while.'

'He's...sad.'

'And that makes you sad?'

'It breaks my heart,' she admitted.

'I'll talk to Anthea,' Greg promised, 'See if she'll tell him a bit more.'

And he would do it. Not yet. But soon.

 

 


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one and an unpleasant following to the little misunderstanding in the last chapter. I'm not entirely sure about it, it seemed a lot better in my head, but judge for yourselves. But fear not, resolution has come. Pretty much. Now it's only Sherlock and John....

_Mycroft? - G_

 

_#_

 

_Reflectionary._

 

_#_

 

_Why? - g_

 

_#_

 

_Propinquity._

 

_#_

 

_To me?- G_

 

_#_

 

_Yes._

 

_#_

 

_Why?_

 

_#_

 

_Digamy._

 

_#_

 

Greg took a moment to think about Mycroft's state of mind lately. Mycroft's state of mind in general. He tried to see everything from the other man's point of view, and then he slumped down in his seat again and, in an effort to cheer himself up a little, he tried to think of a word for Anthea.

 

#

 

_Pyrrhic? - G_

 

_#_

 

_Likely._

 

_#_

 

_Shit. - G._

 

_#_

 

Mycroft was at his desk, staring into space when Gregory opened the door and let himself in.

'Gregory, I was not expecting to see you this evening.'

'Meeting finish early then?' Gregory asked, throwing himself down on one of the chairs.

To his credit Mycroft didn't try to deny it.

'You don't need to lie to me, Myc. If you wanted to be on your own, you should have just said. I can tell when you're being weird, even if other people can't. I might not always know why, so you have to tell me. Just don't lie about it.'

'I apologise.'

Gregory shook his head, 'No. I'm the one that should apologise. I was trying to lighten the mood and it backfired spectacularly and it upset you.'

'I'm not upset, Gregory.'

'What did I just say about lies?'

Mycroft rose from his seat and made to pour them both a drink. He didn't particularly want one, but he needed something to occupy his hands while his mind worked.

'It actually helped me make up my mind about a few matters.'

Gregory accepted the glass from him, but he didn't drink from it, 'I don't like the sound of that, Myc.'

'You were right. The reaction and sensations caused by a bond tend to lead to recklessness and poor decision making. In my position...in my day to day life I have...responsibilities. Many lives,' Mycroft was struggling with the words, hating every single one of them, 'I cannot afford...this country cannot afford for me to make poor decisions.'

Gregory was on his feet, 'What are-?'

He'd felt bad enough, but Gregory was worried and on edge and Mycroft could feel it and the urge to comfort Greg made it even harder to speak.

'I've scheduled an appointment for a pre-chemical treatment medical.'

Gregory looked like he'd just been struck, 'When? Why?'

'I thought it was best to-'

'Are you-? Oh God, Mycroft,' Gregory dropped back down to the chair, paler than Mycroft had ever seen him, and that's when the first slam of pain his Mycroft so hard that he barely heard Gregory's words over it, 'You're doing it again...'

That was the last thing he heard before he was dragged under as wave after wave of grief and fear and anger poured from Gregory. Mycroft couldn't breathe as he was hit with the full force of every emotion Gregory was feeling, completely and without the other man holding back or even trying to control himself. It sent Mycroft backwards and he collapsed into his own chair, using all of his energy to stay upright.

Not a word was spoken, neither of them were capable of it under the flood that was drowning them. Mycroft's body was in agony, every part of him ached with a pain he knew he couldn't tolerate, and then there was nothing. Everything just stopped. He couldn't feel Gregory, he couldn't feel his own emotions. There was just emptiness all around them.

Neither man moved, drained of everything they had, mentally and physically. They sat in the room, opposite each other, but not facing each other for hours as the night closed around them. There were no lights on in the office, and neither of them could move to turn them on. It didn't matter anyway. Nothing mattered.

That was how Anthea found them early the next morning. Clearly not expecting either of them to be in the office, she walked straight in with a large stack of files and a coffee. She looked between them, then her expression darkened and she threw everything she was carrying on the floor, including her coffee.

'Fuck this!' she turned on her heel and stormed out, 'I quit! Terrorists are a piece of piss compared to you too. Well you know what, I'm sick of being Switzerland. I'm going to work at Tesco.'

The click of her high heels down the corridor was loud and angry and only stopped when there was a crash that sounded very like a laptop being thrown. The sound was enough to finally rouse Gregory from his daze.

'What was that?' his voice was broken and lost.

'That was Anthea at full sail.'

'No...did you...?

'I felt...everything,' the analytical part of Mycroft allowed himself a second to marvel at how that was even possible, 'It was...'

'Yeah,' Gregory looked so confused, and that was all Mycroft had to go on for now, but even so, he was surprised when he tried to stand, 'I should go.'

Gregory staggered and fell to his knees and didn't try to get up again. Mycroft half slid off his chair to try and catch Gregory before he fell, and he ended up on the floor beside him instead. He caught hold of Gregory's hand and held it tightly.

'Don't leave me.'

Greg rocked back slightly, 'What?'

'Don't leave me. Please.'

'I..I wasn't...You're leaving me.'

Mycroft shook his head and reached for Gregory's other hand, and held them both between them, forcing Greg to look at him.

'I'm not, why would...' Mycroft closed his eyes for a second and when he opened them he looked directly into Gregory's dark brown ones, praying that the man could see the sincerity of his words, even if he couldn't feel them, 'I'm not leaving.'

'I just...' Gregory looked like he was going to cry, 'I just thought you...and I couldn't take...it was all just too much and then everything just shut down.' he blinked hard and tried to refocus on Mycroft, 'Why did you think I was going to leave?'

Mycroft debating lying, not wanting Gregory to know how just a few words from someone else could cause so much doubt, but he couldn't do it, 'Because if you were still having the treatment, and then after what you said at Baker Street, it just...I felt that you weren't planning on staying. So I wanted to be ready for when you left.'

Gregory looked at him long and hard before he finally spoke, 'I'm going to kill that brother of yours.'

'It's not his fault, he just voiced insecurities that were already there.'

'Like what? Myc? Tell me.'

'I don't deserve you.'

Gregory smiled a little, 'No, you really don't.'

He pulled Mycroft's hands so the man had to lean closer, and then he rested their foreheads together.

'I meant what I said,' his voice was soft, 'Not yesterday. I meant what I said in bed.' he rubbed his thumbs over the back of Mycroft's hands, 'I just worried that I'd scared you. It had already been a very...intense day or two. Can...can you still feel me?'

'I can't feel anything at all,' Mycroft admitted.

'Me either.'

There was a long silence, and then Mycroft had to ask, 'What now?'

'Bed,' Gregory got slowly to his feet and held out his hand for Mycroft, helping him up, 'Sleep. Food. Talking. In that order.'

Mycroft looked at him, waiting, unsure. Eventually Gregory shook his head.

'Don't look at me like that, Holmes. I'm not leaving you today,' he kissed Mycroft very softly, cupping his cheek with one hand, 'I'm not leaving you ever again. Just a shame that it took almost blowing up my mind to get that through.'

'So dramatic,' Mycroft tried to hide his smile.

'Pot? Kettle?'

'We should leave before Anthea comes back.'

Gregory nodded, 'Yeah, that was a bit...wow.'

He held Gregory's hand as they walked out of the office to the main door, where a car was already waiting. Inside, they leaned against each other, too tired to support their own weight.

'Gregory?' Mycroft asked, his voice thick with exhaustion.

'Hmm?'

'Who is Tesco?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pyrrhic - Successful with heavy losses.  
> digamy – second marriage after death or divorce  
> Propinquity – closeness / proximity


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tiny short chapter that I didn't intend to write, but it's been going through my head and so I thought, why not. Enjoy.

Greg and Mycroft slept for almost two full days, waking only to use the bathroom before crawling back in beside each other to lie curled together, warm and safe. At some stage a Thermos of tea and a platter of sandwiches appeared outside the bedroom door and Greg carried them through to the bedroom.

'I see Anthea has forgiven us.'

'Either that or you have had some very conscientious burglars.'

Ignoring the food for the moment, they pulled the sheets back up around them and just breathed in the scent of each other for a while, allowing it to what nature intended it to.

'I'll have to go collect more clothes,' Gregory murmured into Mycroft's hair.

'Stay,' Mycroft's arm tightened around him.

'Well, I'm not going right this second.'

'Don't go at all,' Mycroft buried his into Greg's shoulder, 'Stay here.'

'Myc? Just so we're really clear-'

'For God's sake, Gregory, I'm trying to sleep. Are you going to move in or not?'

Gregory's burst of laughter had Mycroft swearing against Greg's skin.

'You're an old romantic at heart, Mycroft.'

'You can tell me how wonderful I am and swear your undying devotion to me later. But for now go to sleep.'

Greg turned his head and pressed a kiss against Mycroft's temple, 'I love you too.'

 

#

 

Two weeks passed.

On Greg's suggestion Mycroft had presented Anthea with a stack of Tesco gift cards and a crib sheet on terrorists thought to be hiding out in the Greater London area. She had taken to spending her lunch breaks shopping for arms dealers and hummus. Mycroft had never seen her happier.

Greg's life had been transported across the city in a depressingly small raft of boxes that they still hadn't gotten around to unpacking.

It was four full days after that night before Greg remembered to take his medication, but when he finally got around to it he ended up going to find Mycroft, the box still in his hand.

'How do you feel about me not taking these any more? And be honest, don't give me any of that 'It' up to you shit.''

Mycroft looked up from his paper and took a long time to answer, 'I think,' he said eventually, 'That I would like that, but it is up to you, and I'm not going to push you.'

Greg smiled, 'I know.'

He stopped taking them, but he didn't throw them out. He'd started feeling little twinges of Mycroft again, and always knew exactly where he was and when he close. The drugs wearing off was a slow process, nothing like the sudden rush when they bonded, and Greg found that he preferred it. It gave him time to prepare himself.

Sometime during their marathon sleep things returned to normal and Mycroft was able to feel Greg again, so the system overload hadn't done anything that was permanent. The closest they seemed to be able to explain it was something similar to the state of shock Sherlock went into

Sherlock, for his part, was returning to London. There had been a series of progressively demanding text messages, and Greg could only wonder what sort of a terror the detective was being that prompted a furious call from Mummy to come and take him away before she posted him back to London in a jiffy bag.

'I'll get him in the morning,' Greg offered.

'He's a grown man, he shouldn't need a chaperone.'

'Compassion, Myc,' Greg snatched a piece of toast off Mycroft's plate and pulled on his coat, 'If he's coming back tomorrow then there are a few things I need to do today.'

Mycroft turned the page of his newspaper, 'Give Dr Watson my regards.


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which bridges are built.
> 
> I had actually planned on posting what is going to be the next chapter, but this seemed to fit first.

'I've been a bit of a dick to you lately,' Greg said.

John eyed him across the table, grateful for the noise of the football game on the screen that was drowing out their conversation. He'd been surprised when Greg had asked to see him. He wasn't expecting an apology though.

'You were looking out for Sherlock.' They both ignored the strain in John's voice when he tried to say the name,

'Maybe,' Greg took a long drink of his pint and then a deep breath, 'Look, I still think this is mostly your fault, okay. Obviously that prat playing dead didn't help, but...and maybe I'm a bit more biased because of what happened with Myc. But, speaking of that, you were there for me when that happened, and God knows you had to listen to some shit over it. The least I could have done was do the same for you.'

John continued to watch him, not sure if he was supposed to respond or just let Greg get everything off his chest first.

'I was just really, really angry with you that after you'd seen me go through that, that you would do that to someone else. I think it just me feel a bit...insignificant...I don't know.'

'And then there was Sherlock,' John prompted, 'I didn't exactly leave him in a good state, did I?'

'No,' Greg admitted, 'But then he didn't exactly leave you in a good state either.'

Silence fell between them for a long time and then John spoke again.

'I was so angry at him that I didn't even give him a chance to explain,' then a thought occurred to John, 'Do you think he would have ever told me himself? Or do you think he thought he'd just come swanning back with no explanation and life would carry on?'

'Could have gone either way. Consider yourself lucky, Mycroft said he had initially mentioned something about jumping out of a cake.'

There was a pause.

'I got an email from Anthea today,' John said quickly.

'Oh,' Greg didn't look surprised.

'Sherlock's coming back.'

'I know.'

'That why you finally wanted to talk?'

'Part of it. Just wanted to make sure you were warned.'

'Thanks, Greg,' John said, and meant it.

They finished their drinks in silence.

 

#

 

Mycroft decided to keep an eye on Detective Inspector Lestrade was during one of Sherlock's first crime scenes. The DI was overseeing things, while Sherlock gambolled around like a fawn on crack. Which was probably at least half right.

But, from the shielded safety of his car, it wasn't his brother that Mycroft was watching. It was the man in the large overcoat who was looking up at the sky, silently mouthing numbers as he added them up, before writing down in his notebook.

That man, who was unable to add up to...one hundred and forty three it seemed...without having to do so out loud, was a Detective Inspector and in charge of overseeing someone as volatile as Sherlock. Well, that would never do. He would have to arrange to have the man in for a little chat.

As he signalled for his driver to head for home, Mycroft supposed he should be grateful the man wasn't counting on his fingers.

 

#

 

Greg and Mycroft were in bed. Or rather, Mycroft was in bed propped up on the pillows, reading, while Greg was sprawled across the covers, content to watch Mycroft, knowing that it would eventually annoy the other man enough to put his book down. He was timing it to see how long it took to get a frustrated sigh.

Mycroft apparently knew that.

'You're being extremely childish, Gregory.'

'You're being rude.'

'You count with your mouth open.'

'You come with your mouth open,' Greg shot back, enjoying the indignant look on Mycroft's face. But at least he now had the other man's full attention.

'I'm starting to rethink this whole arrangement, Gregory.'

'Bored of me already?'

'Exhausted.'

Greg gave a self satisfied stretch which earned him a roll of the eyes as Mycroft attempted to return to his book.

'Well, you should stop playing with yourself so much in the shower. You'll tire yourself out.'

Laughing, Greg wasn't even embarrassed, 'You watching me now? Got a camera in there too?'

'Not any more,' Mycroft said calmly, earning a laugh from Greg, 'No, I could feel what you were doing.'

Greg sat up, suddenly interested, 'Oh?'

'Hmm.'

'No, no,' Greg poked him, 'You need to tell me more than that. Exactly how much could you feel?'

'Enough,' Mycroft smirked.

Greg lay back down to process this information.

'You were in Parliament the night of the bomb on the train carriage.'

Mycroft looked down at Greg, 'I was.'

'I knew when you close. I mean, I knew exactly when we passed beneath you. And you were thinking about me.'

There was a pause, then Mycroft said softly, 'I was.'

'It was nice. I mean, I could sort of feel you since the start, but it was mostly annoyance and frustration and some weird little moments of evil glee that I'm sure I don't really want to know about. Took me a while to work out what it was.'

Mycroft was amused, 'What did you think it was?'

'Indigestion.'

Pretending to be upset, Mycroft returned to his book, but they both knew he wasn't reading a wors of it.

'Did you feel the same things?'

Mycroft nodded.

'And what did you think it was?'

'I knew exactly what it was,' Mycroft peered over the book at him with another of his teasing smirks, 'And you, Gregory Lestrade, masturbate far too much for a man of your age.'

Any other conversation was abandoned when Greg pinned Mycroft down, tossing the book the other side of the room.

 

#

 

'So,' Greg said an hour later as they lay wrapped in their warm cocoon of sheets, 'Anthea says you're a bit worried because you're my second mate.'

He'd tried to make it casual, but Mycroft shifted slightly.

'Did she now?'

'Don't be like that. I asked her. You should give that girl a pay rise.'

'I may bankrupt the Treasurey if I tried.'

Greg let the silence fall for a while. He'd raised the topic and knew that Mycroft would prefer a few moments to think. The man didn't like to have things sprung on him.

'I know that the whole thing with John and Sherlock and Mary has made you worry,' Greg said, 'You see how John is still connected to Sherlock. Is that what you think? That I still have a connection with my ex wife?'

'It's not inconceivable.'

'I'll be honest with you, sometimes there's the smallest of...something when we're close by each other, and by close, I mean, in the same room. And even at that, it's nothing more than some chemical version of muscle memory.'

Mycroft was looking at him, his expression unreadable. Greg reached out and stroked Mycroft's cheek with his fingertips as the man continued to look at him with the same intense expression.

'So, whatever is going on in that mind of yours,' Greg said, 'Don't worry. I took enough to get here, I'm not letting this go.'

The other man didn't speak at that, he just nodded once, that tilted incline of his head that was Mycroft's signal for perfect understanding. Greg smiled and moved his hand from Mycroft's cheek to the back of his neck, pulling him close and just holding him there.

'Evancalous,' he whispered against Mycroft's temple, earning what could have been a silent laugh.

'Today's word?'

'Hmm hmm,' Greg ran his fingers through Mycroft's hair, chasing them with little kisses. He could Mycroft responding, his heart beating faster against Greg's, and the growing erection against his leg. He smiled that a man could get so aroused by language. Mycroft moved his hips just slightly against Greg as he swallowed.

'And tomorrows'?' he managed, his voice husky, looking up at Greg with dark eyes.

'Basorexia.'

 

#

 

John's phone buzzed.

 

_Thursday. Baker St. Come if convenient. SH_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> evancalous - pleasant to embrace  
> basorexia – overwhelming desire to kiss


	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John gets confused, Sherlock gets cryptic and Greg gets called names.
> 
> And please note that we shall be returning to our regularly scheduled angst shortly as we prepare for landing.

On Wednesday Greg collected Sherlock from his parents, who seemed altogether too pleased to see him, and deposited him back at Baker Street.

'Are you sure you will be-?'

Sherlock closed the door in his face, which Greg took as answer enough, so he pulled his coat tighter around him and headed for home.

Home.

That was a strange thought. Six weeks ago he and Mycroft weren't even talking, and now they were living together. He hadn't quite gotten around to breaking the news to his own parents, he wasn't sure they would be quite as pleased as the Holmes, and he'd like them to at least meet Mycroft before he announced he was living with him. He had no idea what he was going to tell them Mycroft did for a living.

'How was Sherlock?' Mycroft asked when he got back.

'Quiet. When he wasn't badgering me for cases.'

'Did you give him any?'

Greg gave him a look of displeasure, 'If you really need me to answer that then I'm moving out again.'

Mycroft smiled and leaned against him. Greg breathed in deeply.

'You smell nice,' he sighed contentedly, his eyes closed .

'You smell like public transport.'

Greg stepped back, laughing, 'And there goes that mood.'

'Dinner?'

'Two minutes,' Greg said as he headed for the stairs.

'Where are you going?'

'There's this bloke I want to ravage and I don't want to do it smelling of train station sandwiches and other people's B.O.'

Greg didn't look back, but he could _feel_ Mycroft 's sudden anticipation, and that considerably brightened his mood.

 

#

 

On Thursday John walked down Baker Street, his steps becoming slower with each passing second. He hadn't slept in two nights, and Mary kept asking him if there was something wrong.

'Just work,' he'd said. Which was sort of, almost true if he looked at it from at distance, at the right angle.

Sherlock had summoned him and he had no idea what for. Of course, over the years Sherlock had summoned him for every reason from 'I can't find the TV remote' to 'I need you to tell me really, really quickly what you know about Anthrax.'

As the black door to his old home came into view, John thought back over Anthea's email. It had been to the point, as usual.

 

_SH intends immediate return to London. Health stable. Treatment continuing. Return to work in discussion with MH and GL. Mental health as always. Disadvise contact but prepare for chance. Security upgraded. BS made ready._

 

It was long by Anthea's usual standards, and it had made John feel slightly less worried about the other man. But it also made him long to see him.A feeling which had only been increased after he had met with Greg.

Sometime during the night Anthea had sent him another email and John woke to find it in his inbox.

 

_Reminder universe is not lazy._

 

There was a rather large attachment labelled 'SH Holiday Snaps' that John opened with curiosity. It was a series of images, all taken from quite a distance, but very clear. Surveillance images, John realised. He scrolled through them.

The first one showed the white exterior of the Holmes cottage, with two police landrovers sitting outside it. The time stamp in the corner showed it was taken the day after Sherlock was let out of hospital.

'He didn't waste any time,' John said aloud, already feeling the tug at the corners of his mouth.

There were more pictures, one of a shadowing figure scaling the roof at night, one of what looked like the vicar running from the house. A photo of Mrs Holmes looking horrified and arguing which an organ transplant courier made him laugh, and tears were running down his cheeks by the time he reached the full colour photo of the Homes barn on fire.

That image was still in his mind as he paused outside the door, then he took out his keys and opened it, pausing again to listen before slowly climbing the stairs, wondering what Sherlock was going to say.

 

#

 

'Shit.'

Greg jerked in alarm. It was so rare for Mycroft to swear that he knew something was wrong.

'Myc?'

'Dr Watson is at Baker Street.'

'Oh for fuck sake,' Greg threw down his newspaper and got to his feet, 'It was my day off.'

'You don't need to go. I can-'

'No. No.' Greg pulled on his coat and waved an arm at Mycroft's open laptop where the words 'missile lock' could clearly been seen laid over a map, 'You're doing all your saving the free world stuff. I'll go.'

'You always deal with Dr Watson.'

'Because he doesn't like you.'

'He's a very wise man,' Mycroft said, tilting his face so Greg could bend down and kiss him.

'I'll let you know what's happening.'

 

#

 

 

The upstairs door was open and Greg hesitated. John was standing in the middle of the living room, his back to the door, his shoulders were slightly rounded, a stance he had only ever seen John hold once, and that was at Sherlock's funeral. That was the moment Greg started to worry what he might find in the flat.

'He's not here,' John said without moving.

'Why are you here, John? You promised.'

'He asked me to come.'

Greg was going to kill Sherlock. If Mycroft didn't get to him first.

'Come on, John, let's go get a pint, yeah.'

'Why would he ask me to to come if he's not here?'

'I don't know,' Greg was troubled by the tone in John's voice. He sounded lost and stunned all at once.

John took a step forward and looked around him thoughtfully, 'It all looks exactly the same as it did the day I moved in. It was all his things. We never really got around to...and when he died I couldn't stay here because it was like he'd just left everything he owned behind, just walked and left it all. He didn't take anything with him, not even his wallet. Just his phone and his coat. He even left his eyes in the kitchen. He knew, he _knew_ he was going to go, going to leave and he didn't take anything at all. No clothes, no money, no photographs, nothing. _Nothing!'_ He turned to look at Greg, 'You play all those word games with Anthea, there has to be a word for that, right?'

Greg opened and closed his mouth, 'Caraphernelia,' he said eventually.

John laughed and then suddenly he looked like he was going to cry.

'Why did he want me to come here when he's not here? I hated being here on my own even before...it. It was always too quiet without him blowing something up or playing music in the middle of the night. I swear I was woken by sirens at least twice a week the first year I lived here.'

'He had his quiet moments too.'

'Ah,' John's smile came back, but it was an angry sort of smile, 'But then he was _too_ quiet. You could actually hear the cogs in his brain turning as he tried to work out what sort of trouble he could get into next.'

They looked at each other across the room and John shrugged, 'You still want that pint?'

 _'_ Yeah, come on. It's your round first.'

'Thought it might be,' John followed him down the stairs, pausing only to lock the door, 'Why do you really think he asked me to come here?'

'I dunno. Maybe he forgot, or got bored and wandered off.'

'Possibly.'

'Or maybe it's his way of showing you that he's alright. You know, he hasn't clogged all the pipes with some weird goo, or accidentally set fire to himself or anything. He's here, and he's alright, and there were no booby traps waiting for you, so...' Greg threw his hands in the air, 'Honestly, I have no idea why.'

'He took away my chair,' John said quietly as they stepped onto the street.

'Yeah,' Greg stuck his hands deep into his pockets, 'I noticed that too.'

 

#

 

Mycroft helped Gregory out of the car and towards the house, trying to steer him in something of a straight line.

'Thank you for coming to get me.'

'Don't mention it,' Mycroft tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

'Took John for a pint and got sort of carried away a bit.'

'Yeeess.'

Gregory staggered a little and then leaned more on Mycroft to steady himself as Mycroft kicked the door shut behind them and tried to steer Gregory towards the bedroom.

'Will you make me a Pot Noodle?' Gregory asked suddenly.

'I don't think that's a good idea.'

'Why not? I like Pot Noodles.'

'I don't know what a...Pot Noodle is,' Mycroft grunted as he tried to get Gregory up the stairs.

'John would make me a Pot Noodle. And I bet he'd even pick all the bits of sweetcorn out of it first.'

'Of course he would, he's a real gentleman.'

Finally Gregory seemed to notice Mycroft's tone and he turned his head with a stricken expression, 'You're angry with me.'

'No,' Mycroft assured, even though he was, just a little.

'I was trying to help John.'

'I know.'

'Did I ruin your saving of the world thing.'

'I will admit that it was the first time I have been called to collect my drunken husband from a pub, but I'm reasonably confident that it should not have too much of a negative impact on my 'saving the world thing'.'

Gregory managed the last step and once he was safe on the landing he glanced over at Mycroft with a sly grin.

'Husband?'

Mycroft sighed and steered Gregory towards bed, 'Apparently.'

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caraphernelia - a type of heartbreak when someone leaves you but leaves all their things behind


	48. Chapter 48

Greg woke on Friday morning to find himself alone in bed and his phone flashing with three new messages. Blinking in the bright mid morning sun he scrolled through.

  


#

  


_Kilme pleaes – Jonh_

  


_#_

  


That had been sent just after six thirty, and Greg felt a stab of sympathy for the man who was clearly getting up for work, and was probably still a little drunk if his slightly suspect spelling was any indication.

  


#

  


_Had to leave early. Coffee in the machine. MH._

  


#

  


Greg smiled. Mycroft was not the most domestic of people, neither of them where in truth, but the coffee machine Mycroft could manage, even if only for Greg's sake. The one time Greg had tried to operate it first thing in the morning he had almost lost all the skin on his left hand.

  


_#_

  


_Situations have arisen on which I would value your input if free. MH_

  


#

  


Greg frowned, Mycroft never asked for his help unless he really had no other option, and even then only when it came to...

Greg sighed and tapped out a message to Mycroft.

  


_#_

  


_What's he done now? G_

  


#

  


Half an hour later, when Greg was showered and ready to leave, he still had no response from Mycroft, but there was a text from Anthea, which, on some matters, was more of less the same thing.

  


_#_
  

_Absquatulated._
      

    _#_
      

     'Oh for fuck sake!' Greg hissed, patting his pockets for his keys. Fucking Sherlock. Only back two days and already he's pissed off to God knew where. That added a new urgency to the situation, and probably explained why Mycroft himself hadn't responded. If he was caught up with a Sherlock drama he tended to devote most of his time and resources to it, missile crisis and nuclear war be damned. Outward appearances aside, Greg had come to learn just how deeply Mycroft felt about his younger brother.
    That said, when it came to a Sherlock situation, Greg preferred to be as infomred as possible before arriving.
      

    #
      

    _Myc? - G_
      

    _#_
      

_Sanguinary._
      

    _#_
      

      

     For the first time ever Greg was stopped on the way into Mycroft's office. The building was swarming with dark suited agents he didn't recognise and Anthea was nowhere in sight.
    'I can't let you in without the proper security clearance,' a heavy set, and well armed man was telling him repeatedly and with the infinite patience that only comes from knowing you are better armed and far outnumber the threat before you.
    Greg stood at the door feeling like an idiot as he tried to explain who he was.
    'My name is Detective Inspector Lestrade. Scotland Yard.'
    This had about as much effect on the man as telling him the sky was blue.
    'I'm here to see Mycroft,' Greg pressed on, 'He asked me to come.'
    The man didn't bat an eyelid.
    'Mycroft,' Greg said a little louder, 'Mycroft Holmes. Get him out here.'
    'I'm sorry but I'm going to have to ask you to move back. Sir,' he added with great reluctance.'
    Greg grunted. Okay, so they were going to play that game, were they?
    'Mycroft Holmes,' he said through gritted teeth, 'Go tell him that his _husband_ is here.'
    There was a slight flicker across the man's face, and he nodded to one of his colleagues, who disappeared into the house. Greg was left standing at the door, almost vibrating in anger, wondering what the hell was going on and wondering how many ways he could make Sherlock suffer for this. The man at the door kept his sights fixed anywhere except on Greg, but Greg was aware of other eyes watching him with interest. He tried to keep his embarrassment in check, but it was hard when he was very clearly the centre of attention.
    Eventually, after several long minutes, the other man came back and nodded for Greg to follow him. He was led through to Mycroft's office where the man was sitting at the conference table with several members of his staff, including Anthea. They were pouring over a spread of papers and barely looked up when Greg entered.
    'Sir,' the man who accompanied Greg said, before turning and leaving Greg in the middle of the room.
    Greg looked directly at Mycroft, 'Well? What's happened? Why wouldn't they let me in?'
    There was a slight shift at the table and Mycroft frowned, took a breath and then spoke slowly, 'Some matters of national security, for which you do not have clearance,' he added pointedly.
    Greg's anger rose a little more, 'So what did you call me all the way over here for?'
    'It seems my brother has absconded. Find him.' Mycroft returned his attention to the papers in front of him.
    For a moment Greg just stood there, shocked into immobility. When Mycroft realised he was still there, he glanced up at Greg in surprise, and then waved his hand, dismissing him.
    Greg snapped.
    He leaned over the label and snarled close to Mycroft's face.
    'You ever do that to me again, and I will break every one of those fingers.'
    Mycroft regarded him with cold eyes, but Greg could feel the white hot anger lurking just under the surface. Greg never broke their gaze as he spoke.
    'Harrison, please escort Detective Inspector Lestrade out.'
    It was only as he stood upright again, still glaring at Mycroft, that Greg became aware of the subtle movement of hands away from concealed weaponry.
    The young agent Mycroft had called for approached, but Greg brushed him off, 'I know where the door is.'
      

    #
      

    Greg had smoked four cigarettes and made a list of all Sherlock's usual haunts before he gave in and called John.
    'Seen Sherlock?'
    There was a pause, 'You know I haven't.'
    'That was last night. Have you seen, or heard from him today?'
    'No.' Greg could hear the sudden worry in John's voice, and could almost picture the hungover doctor sitting up at attention, 'Is he in trouble?'
    'Trying to find out,' Greg said, 'He hasn't been seen since he came back. You were the last one to hear from him.'
    'Did you try calling him?'
    'No John, strangely that thought did not occur to me.'
    John sighed, 'Alright, alright. Stupid question. What do you need me to do?'
    'See if you can get hold of him, if you find out where he is let me know. If you hear from him then let me know, even if he tells you not to. And if you can think of anywhere he might be, or what he might be doing then for God sake tell me. I'm too fucking old to be chasing that dickhead all over London.'
    'Likewise.'
      

    #
      

    John hung up the phone and sat back in his chair, trying not to worry. On one hand it wasn't unlike Sherlock to just take off without telling anyone where he was going or when he would be back, and at any other time John wouldn't have been too concerned. But with everything that had gone on lately John wasn't so sure that no harm would come to the man. He hadn't been close enough to him to assess his mental state, and he knew all too well how easily Sherlock could fool other people, hell, he managed to hide his drug habit for years from Mycroft, so what chance did everyone else have?
    And then there was the day before. Sherlock wouldn't have asked him over if there wasn't a reason, but he hadn't been there when John arrived. Again, that wasn't unusual. But there was...something. Some nagging feeling at the back of John's mind that there was something more than he was seeing. Something he _should_ be seeing and wasn't.
    John closed his eyes and tried to think like Sherlock.
      

    #
      

    Mycroft looked surprised to see Greg sitting at the desk in Mycroft's home office. He hung up his coat and deposited his umbrella in the stand beside it before turning to Greg.
    'Don't talk to me, Mycroft,' Greg cut him off as Mycroft opened his mouth. He kept his eyes locked on the page in front of him, knowing that if he so much as looked at Mycroft he would start shouting, and he really couldn't take a screaming match after the day he'd had.
    But of course Mycroft Holmes always did as he damn well pleased, 'You're supposed to be looking for Sherlock.'
    'I _am_ looking for Sherlock,' Greg forced through gritted teeth, 'And speaking of which, don't you ever dismiss me like that again. In public _or_ private. I've had just about enough of being dismissed by Mycroft Bloody Holmes.' he added bitterly.
    There was the distant sound of heels on tiles, that signalled Anthea had come back with Mycroft, so no doubt the man would want his office to himself again. Greg glanced up at him.
    'I'm sorry, am I in your way?'
    'Gregory-' Mycroft began, a warning tone in his voice.
    'No. No, don't worry about me, I'll just be on my way,' he scooped up an armful of papers, not caring what order they were in, 'Wouldn't want to get in your way or be an inconvenience, not while you have work to do.'
    'Gregory!'
    Greg was halfway across the room when Mycroft's raised voice halted him. He didn't respond, just stood waiting to see what Mycroft said. See if he had it in him to actually apologise straight off the bat.
    'You caused me a great deal of embarrassment this afternoon.'
    Snapping his head around, Greg could only stare at his mate.
    'Someone of my position being spoken to like that by-'
    'But someone like me,' Greg finished.
    'It was degrading when it happened in front of underlings, not to mention my counterparts from-'
    'I don't give a shit about your _counterparts,_ or your fucking minions. You summoned me to your office and left me standing outside for five minutes, and then you treat me like some bloody employee in front of most of your staff, half of which know we're bonded.'
    A flicker of something...understanding...shame, crossed Mycroft's face, and Gregory pounced on it.
    'Yeah, I was certainly put in my place like a good little omega, wasn't I? Put in place by my mate, and in such a public display of dominance too. So don't stand there and talk to me about how _degrading_ it is to be spoken to like that in front of other people.'
    Greg made to leave the room, but Anthea was standing in the doorway. She looked between them as Mycroft spoke again.
    'In politics power is everything,' Mycroft said, 'I have to maintain a certain persona in order to maintain the respect of others and in turn my position.'
    Greg was suddenly very tired, 'I understand that, Myc, I really do. But disrespecting others is not the way to do it.'
    'Likewise.'
    Anthea stepped sideways as Greg pushed past her.
      

    #
      

    Anthea had long gone home when Mycroft couldn't put off going to bed any longer. He climbed the stairs slowly, hoping Gregory would be asleep already. But he found the man sitting cross legged on the bed, laptop open, pages spread all around him, pen in hand. He looked up as Mycroft entered, and while he didn't smile, he didn't look openly hostile either.
    Mycroft hesitated for a split second, not long enough for anyone else to notice, and then he started to undress for bed.
    When he looked around again, Gregory had cleared most of the things off the bed and was texting on his phone.
    'Is the world safe?'
    Mycroft nodded and hung up his tie, 'For now. And Sherlock?'
    'Working on it. You know Sherlock, you find him when he wants to be found.'
    Neither of them voiced any of the unsavoury places they had found Sherlock in the past.
    Mycroft slid into his side of the bed, and Greg finished his text before setting his phone on the table, careful to keep a distance between them, laying on his side. Greg turned the lamp off and surprised Mycroft by rolling over and wrapping an arm around his stomach, pulling himself in close to Mycroft's back.
    'Gregory...'
    'Shut up.'
    'But-'
    'It was just a fight. It doesn't matter.'
    'It does,' Mycroft was firm, 'I did not intend to upset you. I'm unused to...I had not anticipated a time when I would have a mate, and with the added complication of that mate also being an alpha, I had not yet determined how I would incorporate that into my professional life where such things are easily exploited.'
    'And then I come in declaring it at the top of my voice,' Gregory cringed, 'And's even before we get to the threats.'
    'Yes.'
    'I don't know what came over me, it was just being...challenged like that in front of all those other people. I sort of...yeah.'
    'It appears it may take more effort on both our parts to make this relationship successful.'
    Gregory's arm tightened around Mycroft further, 'Then we put more effort in.'
    'Correct answer, Detective Inspector. Today was...unfortunate.'
    'Yeah, and we'll not do that again, will we. You won't treat me like an underling, and I won't threaten you in front of your staff.'
    '...okay.'
    There was a long pause and then Mycroft spoke again.
    'I'm not used to this.'
    'I know. Neither of us are.'
    'You aren't angry.'
    'Oh no, I'm definitely angry,' Gregory pressed his face into the back of Mycroft's shoulder and nipped him gently, 'But what's the point? We're still working it out. Two alphas...it's gonna take time, and it's gonna be hard. We knew that. So...'
    '...so.' Mycroft agreed.
    He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of the other man, enjoying the weight of his arm around him, before taking a deep breath and asking lightly, 'So, exactly how angry are you?'
    Greg wriggled his hips further against Mycroft, smiling at the little gasp Mycroft gave when Greg's erection brushed against him.
    'That angry.'
      

      

    #
      

    It was something about the flat. John was certain. He hated words like 'clues' but unlike the Holmes brother, or now, apparently, Greg, John didn't have a large enough vocabulary to come up with one. He shook his head angrily, irrelevant. Focus. God, it was like having Sherlock looking over his shoulder.
    Something obvious. Something even John couldn't miss.
    Something...
    He knew where Sherlock was.
      


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> absquatulated – fled; absconded  
> sanguinary - bloodthirsty; murderous.


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tiny little chapter mostly because I don't want to leave folks hanging, but also because I want to see who worked it out before this, and who works it out in this chapter. - Did you get it right?

It was still dark, and colder than it should have been for the time of year. John paused in the open door way, looking out over the lights London, the sounds of the city barely background noise, his ears hardly registering them any more. Which was why he heard the faint swish of heavy fabric to his right.

'You took your time.'

At the sound of the voice, John let the door behind him swing closed and took several steps forward. He didn't turn to look, not sure if he could just yet. He felt a faint thread of nervousness wind through him, cold and fine and _not his._ He allowed himself a second to swell on it, swallowing down all the questions he wanted to ask.

'You moved my chair.'

There was a silence that told him it was the right answer, and despite himself, and the sudden tears stinging the back of his eyes, John smiled.

'It took me a while, I'll admit,' John blew out a deep breath and lifted his shoulders, trying to regain his composure, 'It was the only thing not there. The thing that was mine. _My_ chair. You left everything else there, everything of yours. But the one thing that only I ever used, you took it away.'

The silence grew expectant.

'You let me go to an empty flat that was full of _your_ things.'

John closed his eyes and clenched his hands at his side, breathing deeply and trying to keep control of his own emotions while feelings that were not his pulled at his heart.

'And I remembered the last time you did that.'

 


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I loved how you guys got it! Makes me feel clever and proud to have such amazingly intuitive readers. :)
> 
> Here comes the first bit of angst for a while. We are very nearly at the end of this story - it being very much a Mystrade tale, but , I feel I really need to carry on and deal with all the Johnlock issues, I can't leave them the way they are going to be left a the end of this. So, possible Johnlock sequel. 
> 
> Either way, I think this idea worked better in my head, at least visually.

Greg and Mycroft had been awake since just after five am. Mycroft had jerked awake when his brain or body finally realised that Greg was pressed up _behind_ him. Of course, once Mycroft was up, Greg was trailing after him to the kitchen, where he spread his lists on the table and picked up his phone to check for any messages.

Mycroft had some of his staff checking security footage on all of Sherlock's common routes, and between them they hoped to be able to come up with some sort of lead. Greg knew that Mycroft was concerned about Sherlock continuing his treatment, staying away from heroin and, most importantly, staying alive

They had drawn a frustrating blank so far. But the breakthrough they were hoping for came from an unexpected source.

'Greg? It's Mary, I'm sorry to call so early-'

'It's okay, we were up. What's wrong?'

'It's John. He's gone.'

'What do you mean 'gone'?'

Greg became aware of Mycroft stopping what he was doing to listen and he moved closer so Mycroft could hear too.

'He was there when I went to bed, and when I got up he was gone. No note, no message and he's not answering his phone. I know you two were close and I thought maybe...'

Greg didn't really need to exchange the look with Mycroft before the other man understood and was changing the parameters of the search. John and Sherlock both disappearing within hours of each other? No chance in hell was that a coincidence.

'We'll let you know if we hear anything, Mary.'

 

#

 

There was silence for a long time, as gradually the sky started to lighten on the horizon. Neither Sherlock nor John moved, staying just out of each other's line of sight. Each trying to come to grips with their own thoughts and feelings.

'How much do you know?' Sherlock asked eventually.

'Everything. I think.'

'I didn't want to leave.'

'I know,' John's voice was a choked whimper, 'I know.'

Another silence that seemed to stretch for hours, and then Sherlock spoke again.

'It's not so bad,' he said.

'Liar,' John almost laughed, but his heart was breaking at all the words they weren't saying, 'I miss you.'

'I...miss you too.'

'Why do you always have to make that sound like a question?'

'Because I'm just as bad at these things as you are?'

That was true. Another pause and a slight shift in the wind that carried Sherlock's scent towards John, who let out a soft sound of distress.

'Can...can you still?' he managed.

'Not really,' Sherlock admitted, 'It's fuzzy.'

'Me too. I know you're there, but I don't feel...I don't like it.'

'They said I shouldn't see you. But I can't not.'

'Me either. It's been killing me.'

Another pause before John said, 'I never wanted this.'

It took the longest time for Sherlock to reply.

'Neither did I.'

 

#

 

'Dr Watson was seen heading for St Bart's fifteen minutes ago.'

Greg was already calling Mary as he and Mycroft headed for the car.

 

#

 

'I almost followed you,' John said quietly, and he felt the shock of guilt that Sherlock gave off, and John almost stopped. But he needed to tell him, needed him to know what life was without him, 'I stood on that ledge, more than once, and I looked down and all I could think was that in one step I'd...'

'John...' Sherlock's voice was nothing more than a breath, so full of anguish and longing and pain that John finally turned around to look at him.

 

#

 

There was no one in the morgue, and only one very disgruntled pathologist upstairs in the lab. There was nowhere else for John to go. Except one.

Mycroft stood back and let Greg open the door to the roof, Mary right behind him. It was still almost completely dark, the sky only just lightening. But they could clearly see the two figures at the far side talking, even if they couldn't hear what they were saying. As they watched, Sherlock and John closed the gap between each other, and Mycroft put out a hand to stop Greg advancing. Mary, for her part, seemed rooted to the spot.

 

#

 

'I don't know what we do now,' John admitted.

'We carry on,' Sherlock said, as if it were the most obvious answer.

'You're not going to give me one of your spiels about love or sentiment are you?'

In the darkness Sherlock smiled, 'No point. You never listen.'

John was aware that they were moving towards each other, and when they were within arms reach they stopped and just looked at each other, properly, for the first time in two years.

He wasn't sure which of them moved first, but their fingers were pressing against each other, sliding easily into a familiar hand hold, and they each took a step to close the gap.

 

#

 

Greg made to move onto the roof, but Mary put her hand on his arm, 'They need this,' she breathed.

 

#

 

John ran his fingers across Sherlock's cheekbone and lips, frowning slightly. Sherlock followed suit, cold hands mapping the contours of Johns face, shoulders and arms, examining every inch of his hands, taking in the changes.

Sherlock knew the exact pattern and feel of the bullet wound on John's shoulder. And John knew the placement on Sherlock's arm of the track marks that never faded. Fingers lightly brushed over those places, unable to see of feel them through several layers of fabric, but a silent acknowledgement that they were there.

Pressing their bodies together they stood, cheek against cheek, eyes closed and doing nothing more than just breathing in the other, stood like that long after the sun rose. Long after the three watchers had gone, driven away by the raw intimacy between the two men, Sherlock and John stood quietly under the grey sky.

Just being there.

 


	51. Chapter 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know some of the formatting has been a bit weird in recent chapters, I keep fixing it and it keeps reverting. Apologies.

When Mycroft sent the message to Anthea summoning a car to St Bart's, the pretty brunette had the foresight to send two cars, one of which contained herself and Mycroft's laptop, which she handed to him wordlessly, casting a sideways glance at Mary.

Mycroft had been about to ask Anthea to take Mary with her, when Gregory stepped forward and wrapped his arm around the small, blond woman.

'Come on,' he said, his voice soft and kind as he steered Mary towards the car in front, 'You come with me.'

He carefully helped her into the back seat and then, just before he climbed in himself, he glanced over at Mycroft and nodded once. Mycroft felt his heart swell with a sudden rush of love, and from the way the corners of Gregory's soft brown eyes creased, he felt it too.

Mycroft waited until he was seated in the back of the other car with the privacy screen securely in place, sealing them off from the driver, then he spoke, looking at the seat opposite, but directing his words to Anthea.

'Can you inform my parents that we have located Sherlock?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I assume you have increased my brother's surveillance level?'

'Sir,' Anthea's voice held a slight reprimand.

As St Bart's disappeared from view, Mycroft spoke again.

'This is all rather a mess, isn't it?'

 

#

 

John, his forehead pressed to Sherlock's shoulder, finally broke the intense silence that had surrounded them.

'When we get down off this roof,' he said, 'What happens then?'

Sherlock just shook his head, curls brushing against John's ear as he buried his nose in the crook of John's neck.

'We're going to have to go down eventually,' John said, hating himself for being the practical one, when all he wanted to do was stand there, close to Sherlock and never move again.

'I don't think I can stand being away from you,' Sherlock said in a soft voice John had never heard him use before. He didn't say again. He didn't have to.

 

#

 

Mary didn't say anything in the car, she just looked out the window with a fixed expression. Greg had seen that look many times over the years. It was the look that his officers wore when they were carefully building up their defences and retreating to the safe place in their minds so they could shut out the cruelties of the world.

'Do you want to talk about it?' Greg asked, unsure how to even start that kind of conversation.

'Do you mind if we don't?'

Neither of them spoke for the remainder of the journey, and Greg tried to imagine what it must feel like to watch your mate share such an intimate moment with someone else. Greg thought back over what he had been witness too. It wasn't sexual, not in any way, shape or form. Perhaps it would have been easier if it had been. But the level of intimacy had been startling, and the sheer _need_ thick in the air.

When the car pulled up outside Mary and John's flat, Greg made to get out too, but Mary held him back with a sad smile, 'It's alright, Greg, honestly.'

'I don't like leaving you.'

'I'll be fine. Besides, some conversations need to be private. Assuming he comes back.'

'Of course he'll come back.'

Mary's look was almost pitying, 'We'll see.'

With that she kissed Greg's cheek and turned for the front door and the car pulled smoothly away.

Greg called into the Yard to pick up some case files and reports that needed looked at, and spent a couple of hours flicking through his emails, drafting responses to the more urgent ones, and leaving the rest to deal with on Monday.

Sally Donovan was at her desk and she didn't look pleased to see him.

'You are supposed to be off today.'

'Had a few things to do.'

'I heard Holmes was back in London.'

'Yeah,' Greg said, 'And if I wasn't grey already...'

They both laughed, and then Sally, clearly taking advantage of the half empty office, lowered her voice and asked, 'And you and...you're okay?'

Greg hadn't really told anyone about the change in his and Mycroft's relationship, worried about reactions from concerned friends and co-workers after the rather spectacular fallout from his and Mycroft's accidental bonding and Mycroft's subsequent rejection of him. He had wanted to wait until they were established enough and secure enough that other people would worry less and wouldn't look at Greg the way Sally was looking at him now. But he'd had to pay a visit to HR to change his contact details, and of course it didn't take long for people to be asking how someone on his salary could afford to live in Mayfair. Those who knew Greg personally were able to put the pieces together very quickly, and although no one had voiced concern aloud, there had been a general feeling of protectiveness about the office.

'Yeah, it's good,' Greg said.

'Good,' Sally repeated, although she didn't look at all convinced.

 

#

 

 

All the way home Greg couldn't shift the tableau of Sherlock and John just resting against each other out of his mind. When he met Mycroft in the kitchen, already opening a bottle of wine, it was clear that he wasn't the only one who was having trouble with what they had seen.

'It's barely noon.'

'Hence we're having white.'

It was a sure sign of how exhausted he was that Mycroft's logic sort of made sense. Greg accepted a glass and took a large gulp, not even wanting to think about how much the bottle would have cost. Mycroft didn't do things by half, and Greg was aware that they were going to have a serious conversation about money in the immediate future, but for now he settled for the kiss Mycroft brushed against his temple.

'Do you think they will be okay?' Greg asked.

Mycroft took a deep breath and gave him a hopeless look, 'Who can tell? Sherlock is certainly taking things better than I expected him to, although Sherlock is a lot more vulnerable than he let's people think, and I'm concerned at his apparent need for Dr Watson.'

'But not surprised.'

'No,' he looked at Greg and gave him a small, understanding smile, 'Not surprised at all.'

Mycroft was not good at revealing his own emotions, but his love for his brother, however a twisted and unusual way he tended to display it, was clearly written on his face. Greg could see the took Mycroft's glass out of his hand and set both of them down on the counter top, then he wrapped his arms around Mycroft and pulled him close, resting his chin on Mycroft's shoulder and holding him until some of the tension drained out of the other man.

'I really love you, you know that, right?'

He could feel the muscles in Mycroft's face move against his cheek as the other man smiled.

'Of course,' Mycroft scoffed.

Greg pinched his bum, hard, before releasing him to retrieve his wine and make his way to one of the large sofas in the living room, determined not to move for the rest of the day.

 

#

 

Sherlock and John walked side by side, as close as they could get without touching. Neither of them spoke. They could have hailed a cab, but by silent agreement they had decided to walk, neither one willing to let the other go just yet.

John had forgotten how it felt to have Sherlock as a constant in his life. He didn't have to speak, didn't have to touch, he just had to be there. As they walked, John came to the realisation that it was nothing to do with their previous bond, it was simply a need to have this crazy, impossible man in his life.

He didn't voice those thoughts to Sherlock. If Sherlock didn't know before hand, then he would have already deduced it all from John.

When they reached the junction where they would part ways, their fingers intertwined for the briefest of seconds, and then they set off in their respective directions without a word to the other. They didn't need them.

 

 


	52. Chapter 52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it guys!

 

Anthea sat at her desk, smiling as she listened to Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade argue playfully on the other side of the office door.

'I could definitely make my way from home to here without you seeing me on any of your cameras,' the DI was saying.

'Gregory, you weren't able to make it through our _house_ without setting off the motion sensors.'

'Hey, I got all the way to the bedroom before I sort of got...distracted.'

There was more laughter, and Anthea allowed herself a self-congratulatory sigh before she reached into her desk and retrieved a folder. Opening it she glanced down the list.

 

_THINGS TO FIX_

 

_1\. Mycroft and Greg_

_2\. The Turkish Ambassador's haircut_

_3\. Swiss Economy_

_4\. Election results for the south west_

_5\. Prime Minister's tie_

_6\. North Korea_

_7\. Decor in ladies' washroom_

_8\. Voting system in Commons_

_9\. John Watson's jumpers_

 

She carefully put a line through number one on the list, regarding with satisfaction those she had already accomplished. Then, with great care, she added another number.

 

_10\. Sherlock and John_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say that I have an absolute BLAST with this over the last couple of weeks, and I have been so encouraged and excited and touched by the wonderful, amazing reaction from the folks who have read this - THANK YOU!
> 
> When I started this I thought it would be a couple of thousand words at most, and I honestly thought no one would read it. I have been amazed every day, and the highlight has been reading the lovely comments and support from all you wonderful people.
> 
> I ended it here because really this was a Mystrade story, and I feel that I've put those two through enough for now. But I really need to deal with the Johnlock element, so I guess a sequel is coming in the next week or so - stand by for that.
> 
> Once again, thank you all.
> 
> Much love, etc
> 
> Cla
> 
> Oh, and if you like you can pop by my blog
> 
> [ClaireWritesWords](http://www.clairewriteswords.wordpress.com)
> 
> where I mostly talk about fanfiction and...stuff.
> 
>  


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